


Articulacy of the Inadequate

by Trust_This_Spider



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, キミガシネ | Kimi ga Shine | Your Turn To Die (Visual Novel)
Genre: Art, Card Games, Death Game (Kimi ga Shine), Drama, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Festivals, Fluff, Humor, Multi, Original Character(s), Romance, SYOC, Siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25813984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trust_This_Spider/pseuds/Trust_This_Spider
Summary: Twelve people of varying backgrounds find themselves the participants of a whimsical fairy tale. Beset and strung along by wicked death exams and eccentric dolls, what manner of reward awaits their struggles? A story of untold triumphs, betrayal, and abject misery unfolds. How romantic.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Stage 0-1: The World's Your Oyster

“The way to read a fairy tale is to throw yourself in.”

―W.H. Auden

Smog born of a dozen cigarettes cloaked her room in an unholy halo of arsenic and acetone. Yet another was flicked from fine fingers crowned with pearlescent polish onto a mountainous heap of its cancerous siblings. Half-drained tequila bottles rattled and rolled about the floor whenever the neighbours downstairs kept their speakers blasting past midnight, contributing to the apartment’s many hazards. But the elegant in physique—if slovenly in after-dark apparel—woman had scant reason to complain. Light from her laptop monitor lit her ghostly face. Platinum blonde bangs with a pearlescent sheen that matched her nails hung over her eyes, which, depending on the beholder, were either precious rubies or pools of blood. Her lips were taut, betraying no emotion, and her absent eyebrows only added to the alien indifference she had honed. Every atom of the lady’s attention was on her screen: Queen of Diamonds, Ten of Hearts.

Red. Both of the cards she had been dealt online were red. She hated red, and she hated bleeding sunsets. She hated adjectives that numbered more than three in a single sordid sentence, or when a writer became uppity with their prose. Sure, there was a vermillion red wig hanging from a full-length mirror à la “Snow White”, but that was another matter entirely. Thrusting her irrational biases aside, she didn’t hesitate to call her opponent’s raise of one grand. It was a decently playable hand, and she’d make do—boldly so. Their table was down to just two players: herself and some amateur by the tag of “Anne-Marie”. She allowed herself to scoff—the chain-smoking miss knew a fake name when she spotted one.

Down came the flop with no fanfare or audience to thunder their applaud. She hated crowds; it was part of the reason why she never partook in tournaments outside of the virtual, and why her name was a relative unknown in the world of high-stakes gambling. Enigma or not, the woman—whose laptop had opaque tape placed over its webcam—divulged no passion as she perused the King of Diamonds, the Nine of Hearts, and the Jack of Hearts revealed by the digital dealer. Amateur Anne-Marie checked with spontaneity. The tequila fanatic narrowed her eyes: how had such an amateur made it this far? No, she shouldn’t ridicule this Anne-Marie; she had witnessed for herself the flawless run they were on. It nearly terrified her, but her hand was even more terrifying. An instant straight was reason enough for her to raise, though perhaps feigning weakness combined with her opponent’s check could act as leeway in teasing out a larger pot. Yes, she would set a trap of birdlime. Sticky and cruel. She did fancy herself a cruel girl.

Caged behind clenched teeth, her tongue felt sticky and restless. 2 a.m. _Ante meridiem_. Latin was a dead tongue. Had she brushed her teeth yet? She would after finishing this game. Not a reason to rush, but nonetheless, a reason to win. Real money on the line or not, this was just a game at its core. Games were one of the few things she didn’t outright hate, but there was still much to gripe about.

The turn (also known as the fourth street) was dealt next, and she grimaced imperceptibly upon seeing the Three of Hearts. She would be in for a world of existential pain if Anne-Marie had a flush lined up, and perhaps they truly did—they raised a meaty two grand in chips. She now had to scrutinize over the possibilities of what cards they held. Their hand was strong and safe enough to bet before the flop, but apparently didn’t jive with the initial King of Diamonds, Nine of Hearts, and Jack of Hearts. And now it reacted to the Three of Hearts. Did they have an Ace-King painted red with circulatory organs? It was a distinct possibility, but she needed more information. How would they respond to a dangerously-high raise of... let’s say five grand? That was nearly half of all the chips she started with.

If she were at a poker table in person, now would be the time for her to apply psychological tactics such as drumming her fingers to feint a tell. Sometimes she genuinely drummed her fingers, but only because of her nicotine needs. Regardless, she wasn’t actually a fan of “dirty tricks”, as she called them. To her, poker was pure. Odds were a game of numbers. Math was the domain of truth. She wasn’t exactly a mathematician, nor did she enjoy high school algebra, but she recognized its beauty nonetheless. Luck could go drown itself in a hot tub along with that one cheerleader she had for a classmate.

Bastards and bitches, all of them.

On the topic of people who annoyed her, Anne-Marie responded to her raise with a call. Tearing her eyes from the dim screen, she did two full rotations on her swivel chair, hair fanning out in a hurricane of nacreous motion. Adding yet another item to her list of loathing, she hated staring at the river as it was dealt. Hate was one thing, but what the woman detested was the Three of Diamonds laying before her, prostrate like a drunkard... and undeniably mocking.

What was it that compelled her to hover over “ALL IN” when it went against every instinct that electrified her live-wire nerves? What was it that made the gambler press her finger down on the mouse? Truth be told, she knew the answer to each and every one of those questions but could not find a riposte for how fearlessly Anne-Marie followed suit. If only she had taken that one-time fencing class seriously.

The next moment was a blur. Her gut sank, a gnawing sensation she hadn’t felt since... She shook herself. Memories were to be found only in mirrors. That was the way she had decided to govern her life. And now defeat dripped down upon the lady like the pearls of perspiration along her pale tresses. Without a single grumble, she stood, stepped away from the screen, then laid down on the cold floor amid her liquor. Rumination soon followed.

Anne-Marie’s four of a kind had swallowed her spaghetti straight whole—parsley, pesto, and all.

Bloating her with precarious confidence, the Ten of Hearts had screwed her over. Well... perhaps it was wrong of the woman to anthropomorphize a goddamn playing card. There was to be no triumph that night. Victory had been given up to an unknown and unknowable variable, and she had no one to hurl insults at but herself. She believed in deduction and rational decision-making theory, not hocus-pocus bullshit. Hell was within the recesses of one’s mind alone, or at the bottom of an empty bottle. The start of one, too.

Fuck, she could use another gulp of tequila.

She stared at the ceiling which seemed to swirl like a moonless night, but stucco bumps were poor substitutes for stars. Caught in the whirlpool of intoxication’s buzz, her thoughts careened elsewhere.

If this gambling gig didn’t work out, she had once been scouted by a modeling agency. Twice, actually. Apparently, having a resting bitch face and swan-like proportions made you prime supermodel material. That said, she would have to contemplate regrowing her eyebrows. Hah, as if she’d ever truly consider the offer. She was a swan with wings dyed deepest dark. Flashing cameras that numbered among the stars and shampoo commercials didn’t suit her. The spotlight was meant for someone else.

A certain cherry girl. Three shots of tequila too many. It was time for her to black out.

* * *

“Ehehe... You flatter me far too much, Cherry-san,” came the demure voice of a brunette whose innocent face would cause heartache in all but automatons. Dressed in frilly attire analogous to the rabbit hole’s own Alice, the dandelion puff of a girl sat at a table covered in picnic cloth. Erity Shimizu, likely the richest little miss in town, was having afternoon tea along with playtime company. Fantastical hedge sculptures stood like guardian knights around their fair lady, while spruced-up dolls and plushies occupied the empty seats. Smiling ever so sweetly, Erity had been addressing a red felt teddy as she poured it another cup of cranberry tea. Her frail arms struggled to keep the pitcher aloft, but she enjoyed having to push herself a little every now and then. Life would be so dreary otherwise!

“Honestly, I-I didn’t do anything special to the brew—it’s the same always!” Erity rebuked in a giggling manner. She took a sip from her own teacup and sighed a satisfied “fwah” at the tart yet sweet notes she so adored. Jingling came from the silver charms dangling from her bracelet like a baby’s mobile as she hummed her favourite tune.

What a lovely, lovely (emphasis on lovely) day it was. The girl’s honey brown ringlets fluttered in the breeze, and sunshine collected in her aquamarine irises as it ran the length of her lashes. Bambi may have been a boy, but Erity’s doe-shaped eyes embodied the purity of deer everywhere. The good mood hum continued as her Mary Janes treaded air—she was an inch short of five feet and her toes couldn’t quite meet the grass beneath.

Erity’s exact age was problematic to pinpoint. Her pastel blue dress was as gentle as the sky above, lending her an aura of summertime maturity, but all her mannerisms—no matter how polite—made her childish to behold. The same would hold true when Erity reached adulthood; her freckles, among other features, would have cohorts questioning her age until the end of time.

But by virtue of her story being one suffused with kindness and lucidity, no noose-strung queries were to be left hanging if it could be helped. In short, Erity’s mortal clock had struck fourteen last week, and she made—manufactured—a new friend to celebrate.

Erity shifted her gaze from Cherry to the doll with chestnut ringlets and a constellation-patterned gown. Twiddling her fingers, she pouted at the doll’s seemingly unsipped tea. “Oh dear, is the tea not to your liking, Aurora-san?”

She waited a moment to hear out her friend, then smiled and clasped her hands in understanding. “Ah, of course. That is more than reasonable, Aurora-san. But you don’t need to worry about staining your dress. Even if you do, I can always make you another even prettier dress! Oh, oh, have you overheard what Father often says to our employees?”

With a giggle, Erity reached over to tilt the doll’s head as if she—it—were expressing curiosity.

“You don’t? That’s okay, I’ll tell you right now!” She cleared her throat, puffed up her chest, and knitted her eyebrows in an attempt at replicating her father’s serious face. “Success in life requires getting one’s hands dirty every now and then. Success in business means doing so often.”

After performing a premature and out-of-place fist pump, the girl’s smile turned sheepish. “Aha. Truthfully, I don’t quite understand what Father means... but I’m sure it is something amazing!”

Just then, she heard a splosh in the artificial pond behind her. Sailing between the lily pads was a black-beaked swan, and in response, Erity’s pupils widened in glee. The girl grabbed the sketchbook lying atop the table along with a palette packed full of watercolours. All she really required were white and black pigments, but a world that was grey and grim held no appeal to Erity.

* * *

Most folks idealized sipping on piña coladas below a tropical sun during their retirement. Thane Powell was not most folks. Autumn leaves crunched underneath his feet like potato chips as he stalked forward through the undergrowth. His hunting rifle was light in his callused hands; the man with a salt-and-pepper goatee may have been heavyset around the waist as men in their twilight years are wont to suffer, but he remained a powerhouse on par with the stag he was hunting. Rust-red flakes sharpened into sodden-dirt scarlet. The blood trail beneath his boots became fresher—warmer—with every step.

The hunter swept aside a half-dead shrub and entered a glade. Beneath the rising chorus of bird calls, Thane could hear the faint bubbling of a nearby brook. Lying atop the leaf litter was his wounded prey, his honourable foe. The stag’s antlers were magnificent indeed, robust and as strong as a willow branch. He marvelled as how majestic the beast was even as its life trickled away from the bullet hole in its flank. Onyx orbs fearlessly met the man’s own, which were as verdant as the Emerald Isles neighbouring his native Scotland.

“Aye, quite the chase that was, old chap.” Despite hailing from Scotsman blood, when he spoke, the man’s voice was in equal measures gravelly and posh. He was British in mannerisms, while his Panama hat defined him in other ways. He nodded at the stag with a wan smile, making his way up to its side. Even now, Thane knew he ran the risk of being gouged by its great horns. Gripping his trusty rifle, he had not dropped his guard in any sense of the word.

“You ought to be proud. You’ve lived a long life out here and no doubt have sired many a fawn.”

A blast of hot air from the buck’s nostrils swept over his burly arms, even from where he stood two metres away. Shakily, it attempted to stand on its bony legs, but fatigue won out. The reaper’s scythe drew near. Encroaching darkness flitted at vision’s edge. Thane’s bowie knife would find purchase in its jugular first. Burgundy life-wine spilled onto nature’s carpet of moss. Light left the buck’s eyes soon after.

Though the man felt the urge to linger on the thrill of the hunt, he couldn’t loiter about forever. Standard steps such as tagging the quarry’s ear weren’t necessary—he knew there weren’t any game wardens this far out in the wilderness. Field dressing the deer needed to be done immediately in order to preserve the meat’s quality, so he maintained a quick pace despite the creak in his old bones. Thane didn’t necessarily rely on the meat for sustenance purposes, but the taste of homemade venison sustained the nostalgic hole in his heart. Having another rug to lay on the floor wasn’t a bad bonus either. Winters were so frosty this far north in the frontier lands.

His blade made swift work of the beast’s belly. Cream-coloured fur parted, permitting steamy entrails to spill forth. Thane’s nose barely wrinkled at the stench of death, heady and fecal. After vacating the viscera, skinning the hide, and partitioning cuts of meat, he finished by sawing the stag’s antlers off. Yet another trophy to hang over his mantle. The sun was beginning to set, but Thane had parked his all-terrain vehicle nearby, so he was sure he could make it back to the cabin (which was so luxurious it was almost a castle) he called home before nightfall. Fresh air, fresh venison, ah, this was truly a man’s ideal life, he thought with a self-satisfied smirk. Though there were ways it could be better—much better.

Life had no finish line. Being middle-aged and grey of hair wasn’t even a slightly valid excuse to stagnate. Many a weak-willed man had been claimed by such swamps. He wouldn’t fall here. No, indeed, Thane Powell still had much to aspire for.

* * *

“What is up, y’all? It’s your boy, MadMatteo, and we’re back at it again for night number three of our 10,000,000 subscriber special trip to Tokyo! C’mon, fam, let’s get hyped!”

In the middle of a 24/7 convenience store, encircled by colourful consumer goods, was an equally colourful guy making quite the scene as he swept his selfie stick around in a circle. There were other costumers in the store, from businessmen to students seeking a late-night snack, and most kept a wide berth from the foreigner with a bronze complexion and forest green eyes. On the other hand, his six-feet-tall figure and handsome smile did win Matteo Feliz Oliveira a few giggles from passing teenage girls.

“Yo, check this out! And this! Oh man, we can’t forget about these!” He was like a kid in a candy store as he held up one product after the other: Matcha-flavoured Kit Kat, stuffed onigiri, and a bottle of Pocari Sweat which he cradled as if it were the holy grail. Japanese _konbini_ were a long-awaited paradise for a thirsty (for culture) fellow such as himself. His sneakers squeaked against the tiled floor as he zipped back and forth between the aisles with all the giddiness of a newborn goat.

Matteo was feeling so refreshed by the rush of stimuli, he inadvertently bumped into a boy who had been sifting through the bento boxes on offer. “My bad, bro!” he quickly apologized, feeling the need to de-escalate the situation even if there was nothing worth getting into a fight over.

“Tch. Stupid foreigners...” the boy (who Matteo had to resist calling a runt due to the difference in their stature) muttered as he waved him off and walked away. Matteo’s hearing was pretty darn sharp, so he could hear the boy continuing to grumble things like “bet that jobless bum doesn’t have a diploma” and “at least tourism is a boon to the local economy”.

Matteo chuckled quietly to himself and his fans. He took a few seconds to adjust his headband, smoothing out some of the coppery brown strands that had fallen loose. “Yo, it’s all good, fam. No harm, no foul—there’s no need for MadMatteo to get mad at that dude. I was legit the rude one in this scenario.”

Grinning, he could see his own reflection in the black shell of his iPhone 11 Pro Max, which was as sleek (and exorbitant) as a bejewelled beetle. Compared to the blandly-garbed boy (Matteo pegged him as a student) from before, the YouTuber downright looked like a billboard. Garish patches of primary colours across his hoodie made it seem as though he were a walking advertisement for Teddy Fresh, and on account of the sponsorship he had from the streetwear brand, that was actually true! All in all, Matteo was decked out for both maximum style points and fluidity of movement, as exemplified by the shorts and compression leggings which highlighted his fleet physique.

The swagger in his step undiminished, Matteo returned to gawking at everything that made Japan so delectably Japanese. And his mind was on the brink of expanding to galactic proportions when he encountered the miracle that were watermelons... in the shape of a perfect cube. He looked dead straight into the camera then uttered, “Checkmate, atheists. Minecraft does exist in real life.”

Matteo broke out into howling laughter. Rubbing tears from his eyes, he tried to catch his breath. “Or... Or... Maybe we’re already inside some sort of simulation run by aliens?” he joked. “C’mon, guys, don’t deny it! I know some of you are subscribed to that Freyja chick’s crazy conspiracy channel. It’s cool—I love her rants too.”

From its place up his face, Matteo slid his rough knuckles down to rest his chin on in a thought-provoking manner. “But y’know what’s really weird... is that she sometimes seems so serious, it’s like she legit believes in that stuff and isn’t just the highest-effort parody channel around. Oh well, who can say?”

Shrugging, the streamer busied himself with applying some hand sanitizer from the fanny pack around his chest. “Remember, fam. Ya gotta keep your hands clean if you’re gonna go around touching everything like a madman. Huh, I feel like there’s a cool word for that, but you guys know I’m dumber than a boat made of bricks.”

He was thinking of lunatic. Whether Matteo was as dumb as he claimed, however, remained a topic of frenzied debate in the comments section below his videos.

Just as Matteo was thinking of finally buying something before running off to explore Tokyo some more, the convenience store changed songs. At first, the chirpy instrumental reminded him of elevator music, but when the chorus crescendoed like a cloudburst, Matteo realized which J-pop song it was and felt possessed to bust out a few dance moves. “Yo, is this for real? Are you guys hearing this, or do I have to bop to this beat alone? It’s bleeping Wander Rabbits by Momo Kuruse!”

“Welp, if this makes me a weeb, then I guess that’s just how the cookie crumbles!” The spicy boy would continue his poppin’ and lockin’ (even tossing in a few backflips for good measure) until he was cooled down by a bucket of water from an irritated employee.

“Yo, uh, high-five?” he offered.

In brief, the answer was no.

* * *

Nestled away in a ratty nook of the library, a teenaged boy worked hard at grinding through his reserves of pencil lead. Like bits of brain matter, shredded eraser scraps added to the proof of his after-school toils. The other students had long vacated the centre of learning in pursuit of less scholarly joys, but Eiji Nitta firmly refused to join them. He resented their carefree lives that seemed to be dominated by flights of fancy. Face pressed against his economics textbook, he forged on. This was his one-man battleground where even the dead dared not to dawdle.

Wearing his school uniform impeccably—striped tie straight and black blazer ironed—he looked the part of a model student. His apparent lack of pizzazz and case of mob-face were somewhat remedied by the hot pink handkerchief that brightened his breast pocket. If he had time after studying, he’d go “home” to dose a braid of hair with temporary pink dye. But he almost certainly wouldn’t—exam season was right around the corner. If the boy relaxed for even a second, his grades would slip. Whether it was paranoia speaking or not, it was better to be safe than horribly sorry.

His stomach grumbled. Eiji’s moment of embarrassment was eased when he realized even the librarian had probably dozed off by this point. He at least had time for a quick meal. “You can’t study on an empty stomach!” his parents would always shout. How long had it been since he heard those warm-hearted words?

The boy furrowed his dark brows and frowned. His hands busied themselves with retrieving a bento from his pack. Half-priced and fully-expired. Eiji believed in his iron stomach if it meant keeping his wallet heavy... which it wasn’t at all. He wasn’t supposed to eat in the library, and he was generally a stickler for the rules, but desperate times called for desperate measures. The ticking of the golden watch around Eiji’s wrist served as both a companion to his solitude and a constant reminder of his obligations. His timeless, brotherly duty.

Eiji split the disposable chopsticks with a satisfying snap, then dug into a mouthful of stale rice. He poked at the fritters which had degenerated into battered mush. What even were these? After racking his courage to take a bite, the boy’s palette was disgraced with what could only be compared to a ship’s underside or salty seafloor sludge. Fried oysters, the oft-disputed fruit of the sea. If his self-proclaimed iron stomach failed later that night, he knew what to blame.

Hours wicked away like the sweat trickling down his neck as it met his collar. It was almost the middle of godforsaken July—why didn’t they ever turn on the AC in the library? Well, Eiji couldn’t fault the school too much. He knew Japan’s economic downturn was affecting every walk of life, from cradle to coffin, institution to family business. What had the world come to when the Japanese yen was plummeting like a penguin trying to fly. Similes aside, Eiji had actually enjoyed _Happy Feet_ when he first watched it with his family at the drive-in theatre. Time really did fly... even if penguins didn’t.

He had to go soon, which meant it was time to power through the remaining pages. Eiji sighed into one of his many notebooks, whose sheets were soft from age, abuse, and overuse. None of his earlier thoughts were conductive to studying; thus, he turned them off. One by one, Mr. Nitta powered down until the boy was gone, and only the machine remained. In reality, that made him sound tougher than he really was. Oysters and other creatures of calcite construction made it clear: life was squishy on the inside.

And life was so easily squished.


	2. Stage 0-2: Trickle, Trickle, My Tears

“When we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.”

―William Shakespeare

Haze and heat rays, the snarling sun blazed. There was enough rage to fuse sand into glass and melt the windows of her diner in a district famous only for its sleepy strays. At least, the warmth bearing down on the capelet of bubble-gum pink hair protecting her back, and the blue flames assaulting her apron-covered front, made Mariko experience such struggles. She scorned the sun, and she scorned the heat twice more. But as the old adage went―and it was one that the unripe but full-bodied teenager held close to her chest―she often groused to herself that, “If you can’t handle the heat, then stay out of the kitchen, nerd.”

Mariko belonged in the kitchen, though not in the chauvinistic sense of the expression. This was something she had decided for herself long ago, ever since her soft hands had first graced the spatula. If she likened herself to Jeanne d’Arc, her holy blade was the humble kitchen knife, and no dragon’s breath could burn through the armour of her flowery apron.

Utterly alone, in a kitchen with no cohorts and walls that were peeling, she tended to the stove. Mariko shuffled the wok with arms that were a bit thick for her age, sending florets of broccoli and ground beef flying into the spice-suffused air. Her timing was perfect. Her coordination was sublime. With one hand, she slid on a mitten and grasped the oven handle behind her moments before it beeped.

Mariko had no need for timers or any manner of machinery that was more than necessary. For one, she couldn’t afford expedient expenses, but more importantly, she didn’t need them. She didn’t rely on them. The kitchen dictator had her diner totally under control.

From birth, the body came prepackaged with an entire arsenal of measuring apparatus. Mariko knew this well. She could smell when food was ready―feel it through the sheen of sweat on her skin. The sound of sizzling fat and crackling pepper. The aroma of rosemary and citrus circling underneath the ceiling fan. The traffic that glided by without a care, and even the footfall of passing pedestrians who knew no hunger. It was a club Mariko held no membership share in in the slightest.

It wasn’t that Mariko was a slave to her stomach―she was starved in other facets of her being.

Rumbling alerted her to the pot that had reached its boiling point. She lifted the lid, dodged the scalding steam by a hair’s breadth, and dumped in a plateful of Chinese-style dumplings. So much to do, so much to do. Was there too much to do? Nope, not for her, she reasoned. When one dish was ready, she hastily heaped it onto a platter and set it out on the counter for the diners to grab themselves. It pained her pride to operate using such a system, but the lack of waiters or even a single other employee meant that she had no choice. If only she could be in two places at once, or even ten. Oh, how she envied those video game characters who could clone themselves. Even if she seemed like the sort to refute help in the kitchen, Mariko truly longed to be on a team, working in tandem with likeminded, compatible chefs.

Sadly, she had no money―not many people did these days. The only rich people in the world were either blessed with luck or cursed with a crooked heart. Sometimes both. And because Mariko had neither (or so she hoped), her “family” diner looked more like a ditch with every autumn that passed.

The recession (of which there were too many to list―she knew, or more aptly, used to know a boy her age who could rant about this nonstop if you gave him the chance) had forced her family’s diner to downsize years ago. And naturally―because everyone with a functional brain knew that fate was a sadist―the fire department had then swung by to deride the hazard of having too many tables in too small a space. To Mariko, it often felt as though life was a constant conga line of boots trampling over her pretty face. And those boots just happened to be smeared with mud accumulated from all the rainy days she had ever known.

But she didn’t want pity. Pennies for the coffers, maybe. But never pity.

On second thought, she wouldn’t mind some merciful rain. It’d be bad for business, but a free remedy for the sweat that was beginning to soak through her purple T-shirt sounded rather nice.

And that was the TL;DR of her otherwise long-winded backstory. For now, the delicate particulars (and delicate panties, whatever that implied) could be tossed into the compost bin. That reminded her, she needed to empty the bin soon. These days, earthworms were apparently all the rage as natural composters. Perhaps she would go dig around for some after the day was over. On third thought... gross.

Today was weird, and she didn’t quite understand why. Her mind was abuzz with more tangents than there were carpels in a tangerine. Carpels were those juicy segments that formed the flesh of the fruit, and because Mariko was no botanist, this was a foreign fact to her. Furthermore, the girl’s biology grades (and grades in general) happened to be inadequate, to say the least.

Maybe she was just hungry. She tended to skip meals when work was getting out of hand. At least she didn’t have to go on a diet. Her stomach grumbled to match the scowl on her face as the mallet in her hand murdered a flank of beef. Crushing. Chewing. Munching. Mastication. Masturbation. That last one wasn’t relevant in the slightest. Well, even so, the go-to excuse all teenagers would cite is exactly that: they’re teenagers.

A weight landed on her shoulder, causing her heart to jump and the tenderizer in her hand to quiver. Relief soon came when she realized it was only the dubiously dubbed diner cat. He wasn’t actually her cat―just a wily stray with an eye for easy meals. Mariko avoided giving him a name, because she was worried about building an attachment in the event that he someday ran off―or, god forbid―was struck by a truck and isekai’d into oblivion. And if a light novel existed with that exact premise, she wouldn’t be surprised. Hence, when she called out to him, a simple “Neko-san” sufficed.

But there was no time to waste giving scratches to the flea-infested feline. She shooed the striped rascal―who could pass for a raccoon off her shoulder―and eyed him as he skulked away. The cat would probably busy himself searching for a juicy mouse or two. Neko-san’s intrusion had some severe strings attached. Her lapse in concentration cost her dearly. An acrid blade of something burnt tickled the girl’s nostrils most unpleasantly. Fucking fuck served hot on a shish kebab! In that moment, she drew upon the legendary Gordon Ramsay’s own storehouse of swears.

After a few gruelling minutes of cleaning gruel, Mariko stared down at the congealed chaos in a cup. Ruined, utterly ruined. She wouldn’t even serve this to a serial killer on death row. Her nose twitched like a rabbit ready to maul a fool. Something bothered her about the fact that there were chefs who ended up in dead-end careers serving soulless meals to prisoners. That said, perhaps this wasn’t something a blue-collar girl playing at running a diner in the absence of adults should be contemplating. Mariko would’ve taken offence at having what she worked herself to the bone doing be called “playing”, but it was as true and blue as rain. Even the legality of her living arrangement, let alone her self-employment, was questionable at best. She dreaded the day a cease-and-desist order arrived through the mail. At least, that was how she imagined it to work.

She had to get back to work.

* * *

Why was it that psychiatric hospitals always had to look like castles drawn by a depressed artist? Well, perhaps that was a little redundant to say―most artists were depressed. Moving on, general hospitals tended to be shaped like bricks, and there was nothing more boring than drab greys and washed-out yellows. The walls that were as white as sparkling bone tended not to strike their occupants as comforting either. Shrill wind shrieked as it scraped along and carved deeper into the masonry, and the ginkgo trees danced to the macabre whistling. In autumn, the gingko leaves would become a brilliant gold, adding a touch of life to an otherwise dreary place. Haru Hayakawa was very much looking forward to that time, some months from now.

Observing the hospital’s gaunt face from the garden, it would have been easy to mistake the locale as being in London or some other European city. Although the ginkgo trees hinted otherwise, Haru’s peculiar style of dress didn’t do much to assuage the geographical confusion. Decked out in their coffee-coloured trench coat, white button-down, and dark green vest with fancy gears stitched into it, the seventeen-year-old looked like they leapt straight out of some Victoria-era novella. That said, it would’ve been a very tiny leap, considering they stood shorter than the average thirteen-year-old. For those curious, that would be roughly 157 centimetres, and Haru was lacking two of those precious digits.

Life was tough when you were a runt, especially a runt who received the occasional odd stare for more than one reason, except Haru didn’t mind. What was more annoying was when the nice (but old-fashioned) old lady at the reception kept referring to them as “he” or “him”, even after they had practically made themselves a fixture in the hospital by then. But that was okay. Not a big deal or even a little one. Haru had long since learned not to trouble themselves with correcting the old woman and simply shot her a smile whenever they walked past. Perhaps a year or two ago, they would have whittled down the time trying to explain the nuances of gender, but they were a big kid now, and big kids rolled with the punches (unless those punches came with nails between the knuckles).

There was a lot more to consider too. Societal change outpaced the fermentation of prejudices, and it begged the question of if someday Haru would also become an outdated old-timer whose bigotry rejects the generations to come. It was unbelievably unlikely, but as Benjamin Franklin had once so eloquently phrased it, nothing―aside from death and taxes―was certain.

Returning to the present moment, there was Haru, mucking about and bouncing on the ball of their black lace-up boots. In their clutch was a can of concentrated coffee, which they took a small bit of pleasure from popping its ring tab open. Addicts always needed their fix, and Haru’s was caffeine. With three greedy gulps, they downed the double-shot kiss of expresso; however, their bravado in doing so soon wilted into a grimace. Like many, the youngster’s taste buds were thoroughly addicted to sugar, and the bitter liquid nearly made them retch. Even so, the need for caffeine surpassed the need for syrupy sweetness. If nothing else, perhaps imbibing a bitter prelude would dampen the grief Haru was preparing themselves for. Plastering a smile to one’s face wasn’t exactly healthy, and as an aspiring psychologist (maybe even a future psychiatrist) themselves, Haru knew this by heart... Nonetheless, cheating a smile onto your face was far from a crime against humanity.

Was it time for a non sequitur? Pouring over psychology texts was one of Haru’s more diligent pastimes (of which there admittedly weren’t very many of), and the subsections tinted with historical notes were always of particular interest to them. Haru considered how it wasn’t so long ago that people like themselves would be tossed into the madhouse like a raccoon with rabies and subjected to all sorts of “treatment” such as electric shock therapy and even lobotomy. Terrible. It was tantamount to torture. Continuing with the theme of shocking news, the genderqueer term “non-binary” hadn’t even been added to the dictionary until last year. Last year! However, Haru had also read that seventeenth century English laws did recognize people who didn’t neatly slot away into the categories of male and female and referred to such individuals as “it”. How dehumanizing, but at least it was a step in the right direction?

Okay, that was enough trivia―Haru understood they were simply stalling for time inside their own skull. Delaying the inevitable, even though they had come to the hospital of their own accord. Coming to, Haru then realized that their body had been on autopilot, and their traitorous feet had carried them before the red door of room 606 before they even knew it. There were reasons for the discomfort. Dad wasn’t here like usual to be a rock for them―some serious cases had sprung up at the old man’s own infirmary. Oh well, now was the time to be tough. A pair of portly nurses passing by exchanged murmurs between them when they saw Haru resolving themselves, retrieving a bouquet of yellow, buttery flowers from their coat.

Haru supposed it was a sad sight for the nurses to see them waste away their summer days within walls so white and sterile they were no different from a padded cell. And in the depths of this sanatorium, there were certainly those too... Haru had never visited one, and they hoped they never would.

There was no need to knock. Haru stepped into the featureless room, mustering every ounce of good cheer they had into a rapid-fire greeting. “Heya, Mom! How’s it going? Oh, oh, I brought some fresh flowers for you to look at. The colours are especially super-duper spectacular this year, aren’t they?”

There she was, sitting at the edge of her hospital bed, staring out the window at what was most likely nothing at all. Sara Martin, the pale and frail woman whom he had inherited his dirty blonde mop of hair from. Haru couldn’t see her face from where they were standing, but they knew her eyes were green and glassy like a bottle of beer―the same as his own. His own? No. Their own. Their knee throbbed. Their elbow stung. Why now?

That day, and on all the days that were to follow, not once did Sara return her only child’s smile.

Someone’s sanity was being sipped away―slurped apart like stars on their death spiral toward the cosmic crucible at the centre of everything: everything, everything, everything.

* * *

“And... Action! C’mon, give it to us!” barked the director whose raven hair was done up in a strict bun. Only seconds after the photo shoot began, she slowly lowered her sunglasses and sighed into her palm.

“But not too much action, Cass! Sheesh, tone it down and lower that leg of yours a little, would you? I’m talking like ten degrees lower. Can’t give the boys too much fap material, y’know what I mean?!”

The model in question―who was cosplaying as Cammy White with a special guest appearance from her bare legs―went flush at the comment. “I-I don’t! And hey, I failed geometry back in school! Ten degrees? Is that in Celsius or Fahrenheit? You’ve gotta be kidding me!”

The director groaned for the umpteenth time that day. “Oh, come on! Quit clowning around, Cassandra.” She turned to the other staff members on site, who were all varying shades of shrugs and barely-contained chuckles. “Fine, fine, fine. Everyone take ten! Oi, Brandon, where’s my freaking latte?”

“Here, ma’am!” A fetching boy (pun-intended), straight out of high school, flew onto the scene, nearly tripping over cables and scattered props on his way there. He held out a tray of assorted drinks with names long enough to make a barista consider suicide.

“Mm, good boy,” praised the director, whose red lips were now adorned with a foamy mustache. “Didn’t even mess up the order this time. You can go take a break too, sweetie.”

Brandon thanked her and shuffled away until he noticed Cassandra who had flung herself onto a folding chair, legs crossed and face pouting. He thought to himself that the pout actually helped with pulling off the Cammy White look, since the model’s usual excitement and grins didn’t exactly fit the coolheaded character.

When the boy tossed his senior a can of Monster Energy, she caught it one-handed without even looking and immediately beamed at him. “Heeey, Brandon! Thanks, babe!” Tearing the tab off with her shark-like teeth, Cassandra wasted no time gulping down her daily fix of uranium disguised as a drink.

To Cassandra, not even an ice-cold, frothy beer could beat out an energy drink after a long session of holding poses and performing flashy kicks. She crushed the finished can between her fist and tossed it into the bin behind her... on the opposite end of the studio.

Brandon was impressed and equally surprised when she patted the chair beside her. Seeing no reason to refuse (or an easy out), he smiled and sheepishly accepted the seat. His internship as a glorified gofer meant he never actually spent that much time on site, and the bulk of his day consisted of running around town, tackling odd errands. As such, he rarely got a good chance to look at one of the studio’s most treasured (and teased) models.

Cassandra Randa was a looker for sure―you had to be to do her job―but she wasn’t the graceful, swan-like sort of model you’d see on the runways. No, Cassandra had the tight abs and taut frame of a legitimate fighter, not just someone who cosplayed for fun (and money). In fact, he was pretty sure she had some side-gig involving martial arts. It then occurred to the boy that perhaps he was getting it the wrong way around, and modelling was her actual side-gig.

Truly, beneath the cosplay was a lady who would fit right at home in a fighting game herself―with or without a costume. Her tanned skin was covered up and made pale by enough powder to cover all of Antarctica in a fresh layer of snow, while her royal purple hair had begun to spill out of her wig. And considering that some of those strands were ankle-length, the only way they were hidden in the first place was thanks to the red beret of Cammy’s character. Regarding her eyes, although they were shut tight as she stretched―purring as she did so―when wide open, they were bright and alarming like a traffic light.

By this point, anecdoche had overtaken the studio as inane conversations broke out, rather like the one they were gearing toward having themselves. Brandon also realized he was staring, and mentally clocked himself on the forehead for it. He was being rude.

“Like what you see, eh?” Cassandra caught him red-handed (or, in this case, red-eyed) and shot him a cheeky grin. Her wink was the finishing blow.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do.” Brandon chuckled and scratched his slightly reddened cheeks. “Can you blame a guy? If you ask me, not even Cammy holds a candle to you.”

“W-What...? Woah, woah, I-I’m calling foul! Offside! Red card!” Cassandra was redder than a tomato herself as she squirmed in her seat, waving her arms defensively between them. And then a light bulb appeared over her head. “Hey, hold up, aren’t you fresh out of high school? Aren’t I like five or six years older than you...? Oh crap, I can hear the sirens already!”

A few of their coworkers had been eavesdropping on the pair, and at that moment they all burst into raucous laughter. Laughter that was at Cassandra’s expense. Brandon secretly wondered if he had taken the joke too far.

Many people―most notably her parents―would say Cassandra had only obtained a trim figure in adulthood and had yet to shed the baby fat around her heart. In other words, she was still immature. The opposing camp (which consisted of only Cass herself) would claim she maintained her maidenhood with a fighter’s fist and peerless scrutiny. Unfortunately, that didn’t exactly explain why she felt compelled to flirt like a flower does to the bees in spring. It also didn’t explain why she failed every time and was more susceptible to counters than an unskilled slugger in boxing. Ouch.

After Cassandra’s embarrassment had waned, she quickly returned to her usual cheery self. “I’ve gotta hop after this. Dentist appointment,” she piped up.

“Oh?” Brandon nodded in a consoling manner. “Yeesh, that sucks. I had to get my wisdom teeth pulled last year. Still kind of sore.”

It was Cassandra’s turn to pat him on the back. “Nah, I’m fine with going to the dentist. I actually like it―it’s relaxing. Besides, my dentist is the cutest little thing ever to boot!”

“Uh... Good to know?” Brandon had his suspicions about who she was talking about―indeed, there was a particularly notorious dentist in their area who was... well, common words failed to describe them. Nevertheless, this wasn’t the dentist’s story. And anyone who thought it might’ve been Brandon’s story would be pained to learn he suffered a fatal car crash the very next day. Spoilers.

By the humble process of elimination, it then became apparent that this was twenty-three-year-old Cassandra’s belated journey into adulthood and the great void that came after.

In this world, wider than an obese man’s waist, there weren’t nearly enough energy drinks to prepare her for what was to come.

* * *

Poised like a queen and dressed like a chessboard, there sat a woman atop an iron bench. Her posture was impeccable, and she kept her white-clad hands neatly folded in her lap. Though simple in style, she kept her rich brown hair restrained in a prim ponytail, and bangs framed the milky membrane of her face. Even as she drifted away, icy grey eyes hidden behind frigid eyelids, Evelyn Wood was nothing short of pictorial. As she would frequently remind her peers, beauty and the feminine mystique were a product of composure, not drowning oneself in enough cosmetics to make even a peacock gawk. But deviating from her deceptively delicate appearance, Evelyn’s arms were like oars, her legs like rudders. Make no mistake, she was a strong woman.

It was worth mentioning the British maiden happened to look like a penguin too. She wore a black shrug over a snowy short-sleeved dress, while dark pantyhose prevented her legs from showing unsightly amounts of skin. Hers was a very sleek appearance―penguin-sleek and hydrodynamic, in the sense of aerodynamic, only more apropos to the pelagic realm she found herself visualizing. It wasn’t like her to doze off in the middle of the day, especially in a public space, but some irresistible force was insisting otherwise. Was it the siren’s song?

Consider thus: the sea was the source and pioneer of primordial cruelty. Where else was the brutal birthplace of serrated teeth that wreaked havoc upon the hapless? Where else had predation predated all gestures of peace―where the biggest and fiercest forever feasted on the fleeing? And where else had the precursors to scorpions crawled onto shores that had only begun to teem green with larval life? Yes, indubitably, the ocean was an all-consuming expanse of blue which endangered Evelyn to a spirit of smallness... or more poignantly, the realization of it.

But was she the speckled seal, clinging so desperately to the pack ice? Or was she the orca―the killer whale―churning the sea like butter in its wake.

At that instant, Evelyn felt a hard nudge at her ankle, and she teetered out of her torpor. It was a child’s football (the variety with pentagons and hexagons studding its surface―not shaped like Stewie Griffin’s ginormous head). How sore and bothersome. Not the child, Evelyn meant herself. She had been reminiscing over the scale of the sea once again. That wouldn’t do.

Moments later, the little boy―no older than nine―whose wayward kick had sent the ball off course sprinted over, reeling with half-formed apologies. Oh my, what a frabjous set of manners he had! Evelyn wagered that his parents had raised him sufficiently well, though if it were her... If it were by her hands...

Evelyn rose from the bench, patting down her dress as she did so. Gathering her goodwill, she channeled it into a smile at her sporty child; honestly, she counted virtually every self-articulating creature on the planet among her flock. If it was a strange concept to others, and they denied her maternal advances, Evelyn would remain adamant. Diamonds were appropriated into drill bits, and she would do the same in a less literal conduct. Everything and everyone broke at some point. No object nor being could withstand the stark shadow cast by a mother’s love.

Children, precious, precious children were much better than dogs―especially Chihuahuas, curse their existence―and more obedient too if trained right. Correction: raised right. Nothing pained her more than to see a child waste their potential and slither down life’s back alleys.

Having made up her mind, she patted the child’s head, tidied his collar, then ushered him forward to return to his friends who were now calling out for the ball. In truth, Evelyn found the tiniest fragment of herself longing for those faraway days when she could play football too, no matter how inelegant the sport was. Was it envy? Dyed green and grotesque? Or perhaps... Was it something else, of another, more indeterminable shade?

Beneath the shade trees, Evelyn pondered her position. Just across the street, a ruddy man was mowing his lawn to British standards of excellence. The rumbling racket was as harsh as the sunbeams that noon. It drowned out the children’s laughter as they played, which didn’t bother Evelyn nearly as much as she thought it would. It was a nice day. She was having a nice day. Surely not everyone could say the same.

Somewhere in the world―mayhap overseas―beyond the English Channel and its isles of rotting refuse, it was raining like the dickens. Of that she was convinced if nothing else.

* * *

Before the golden gates of Paris’s most renowned zoo, there stood a woman with flaming hair like a salamander’s skin and half-lidded eyes as still as petrified wood. She was petite enough to be mistaken for a child, and that was with the knee-high boots adding two inches to this twenty-four-year-old’s frame. A few seconds later, she decided she didn’t quite enjoy standing in the downpour like a madwoman for no real reason but to look dramatic, so she hopped the gates that were several metres tall―effortlessly. Despite it being in Paris of all places, the zoo was deserted for one reason or another (certainly, somebody was to blame). Yet if someone had been there to catch a glimpse of what was beneath her miniskirt, they would’ve been introduced to Basilie’s inclination for going commando. It would seem that degeneracy came naturally to her.

Basilie Lacoy was there to see some pandas, and if that meant the end of her existence itself and the abandonment of all else, then so be it. Doom and destiny called―so often the two were intertwined closer than strands of DNA.

Hands stuffed into the pockets of her pale gold hoodie, Basilie wandered down the zoo’s vacant walkways. Most of the animals had already been ushered inside at some point to escape the incessant rain, meaning there genuinely wasn’t much to look at. The sight of nothing but empty enclosures briefly reminded her of the cells after a successful prison break. Oddly specific as far as comparisons go. Still, she wasn’t about to give up on seeing her very first giant panda. The zoo boasted the only one of its kind in all of France, and it had taken a long-ass train ride (among other less scrupulous means) to make it there; Basilie sure as hell wasn’t going to get nothing out of this.

The rain wedged itself past her glasses and stained her pale face, trailing along the teardrop tattoo she had beneath her left eye. It felt slightly acidic. Paris seriously needed to get its pollution in check, she mused to no one but herself.

She searched for the box of bubble-gum she kept in her hoodie, but was met with nothing aside from some lint, her utility knife, and an expired train ticket. Oh, right, she had already finished chewing it all up during her stowaway aboard that freighter. At least she had gained the wisdom of knowing travel via a shipping container wasn’t something she’d ever consider doing again. Sighing, Basilie made a beeline to the nearest snack stand she could find and pilfered it of its gum with only a hint of remorse. Minor larceny accomplished, she pocketed the pack of Trident (melon-flavoured, just like the highlights in her hair) and was on her way once again, following the path of multi-coloured pebbles.

Her hair was thoroughly soaked by this point, but it had grown too thick and unruly to stuff into her hood. Whatever, it was fine―she didn’t care. Free showers were to be taken whenever you could get them. The same held true for most things in life. Opportunism didn’t mean you were a vulture―only that you weren’t content to die like a dog by the road.

Zoos and glass menageries. Nothing but lacquered prison cells. What made them so appealing to most people? This was supposed to be the wonderland where parents took their children during family outings? Laughable, but she didn’t feel like laughing. It was starting to strike her how absurd the whole affair was. Though maybe it was just the rain that dampened the experience and made every speck of dust seem so much more depressing. What the hell had she actually come here for?

She would remember soon enough.

The drizzle had lessened a little, falling more as silvery mist than as fat-bottomed tears. The thud of her boots came to an end too. At the edge of a shallow pool, encircled by palisades of bamboo, Basilie spotted the spotted bear.

The panda was sitting on his haunches, dipping his black paws into the pool. Dead bored―that was how Basilie would describe his expression, but perhaps she was just projecting herself onto the monochrome canvas of his fluffy face. Yeah, she supposed the panda was sort of cute in a dumb way.

What was his name again? Basilie knew she could just search around for a sign somewhere nearby that would spell it out, but in her mind, it’d just be a waste of time and effort. Again, whatever. She’d simply call the tub of lard something affectionate and derisive in equal proportions. Something stupid like “Falafel”, chiefly because she was starting to feel a bit peckish.

Suddenly, she was reminded of someone she had yet to meet. How mysterious. It lasted for only a brief instant, but the shudder down her spine spoke of a blissfully blackened future. If only she could read the stars above screaming at her.

“Salut. I’m going to touch you now, Falafel. Try to stop me,” Basilie greeted and warned within the same breath. A sinister sheen ran over her specs as she adjusted them, and like an assassin, she advanced a measured step toward her mark.

Blankly staring at the strange woman, the panda made a bleating noise―cute, squeaky, and quite like a sheep―which wasn’t the guttural roar Basilie had anticipated. Still, it was rational in a rather roundabout way: pandas truly were the black (and white) sheep of the Ursidae family. They subsisted, but more accurately starved on bamboo. Furthermore, giant pandas didn’t hibernate, and that was because they could never store enough fat from their lean green diet of grass pretending to be a tree. The only reason Basilie didn’t outright call them evolutionary dead ends surviving off their cuteness alone (sort of like how dogs accepted bondage at the hands of their human masters), was that she claimed zero expertise in such subjects. In brief, she wasn’t the reincarnation of Charles Darwin.

Thinking more on the matter, what set the panda apart from other bears was that it had not been taught the value of violence... or was the reverse true, and it had simply forgotten over the long years? Regardless, once engraved into one’s chromosomes, violence was a blood song that could never be snuffed. It could even be argued that humanity itself descended from the spring of savagery. Basilie knew this well. Too well.

His fur was moist from the rain, but irrefutably soft. Gently stroking his shoulder, Basilie smiled for a short while, and for the first time in a long while. Now she knew: Falafel had his prison. She had hers.

What was her goal? To be strange like the Weird Sisters, and to punch her ticket to the outlandish outlands. These things were what Basilie sought. Wheels and steel wouldn’t take her to where she needed to be; she would have to walk there on her own, leveraging her talents. It had to be asked: if Basilie embarked on a bizarre adventure―as a saint among oddities, a fool among filth―would her life fade away into fiction? Drift into myth?

The prelude to the answer came accompanied by siren dins, and a deluge of red-blue lights soon followed. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to do everything on her own after all―her trusty steeds have arrived.

“Ne bougez plus!” the first officer shouted with his handgun aimed at her.

She complied with calmness that seemed downright horrific. For Basilie, there remained a silver lining to the fiasco. The next time someone asked what she had gone to prison for, she could blithely reply her crime was no less, nor greater, than “molesting a giant panda”. No matter how degenerate it made her sound, it meant she wouldn’t have to talk about much else. In theory. It was a working theory of hers.

D’accord?


	3. Stage 0-3: Haunt & Happenstance

“A house with old furniture has no need of ghosts to be haunted.”

―Hope Mirrlees

_To articulate meaning―to bring its being into existence with fine strokes―frequently requires more than just analyzing what one’s eyes can see, and what one’s mind may name. More must be done―more must be shared. The soul of an artwork exists outside of its corporeal shell, and so often its creator expresses woe over how their work is understood. Though their masterpieces may be eternal like monuments, or at least obtain permanence in the annals of history, an artist is not. There was one Polish genius of Surrealism who expressed an aversion to displaying their works, chiefly because they believed that a painting could not actualize its latent quality unless viewed beneath the same lightning as at the time of their conception. An experience without guidance is inadequate, and symbolism among other loose means of interpretation is a wild card beyond control. Consequently, the importance of labels that act as lighthouses is not to be underestimated―_

Sleek like ivory piano keys, the fingers grasping their pen came to a stop and sojourned atop the exam table. The arm those fingers belonged to was swathed in a sleeve that resembled the interior of a cream puff in both colour and volume, and the rest of the young woman was attractively dainty in her dress woven of burgundy corduroy. She had paused her penmanship because it was understood that she was really just battering the proverbial dead horse. Nibbling on her pale lips, she pondered her possibilities as the ink dried into bold yet delicate letters.

Truth be told, she had actually finished writing her exam an entire hour ago and was now perusing the pages for every last advantage she could glean. She had rewritten the introduction far too many times already, and even her perfectionism had its limits. Logically-speaking, she could hand in the paper at that very instant and expect a near-perfect grade. This was assuming the professor―quite the unusual woman herself―or whichever hapless assistant marking the exams didn’t happen to have a vendetta against her. Regardless, this was only the voice of paranoia speaking. There was no earthly reason why anyone would see fit to sabotage her grade...

With prudence that would outdo an entire beehive hoarding honey for winter, she double-triple-checked the spelling of her own name: Reina Yachiyo, written with the characters for “wise” and “eight thousand generations”. Her parents―bless their slumbering hearts―had blessed their daughter with an auspicious name, and she was determined to do their wishes for her justice through academic excellence. She would obtain star-grade grades and shine with the brilliance of a billion suns if that was what she had to do. Such was her purpose.

The young lady set down her pen and twirled a lock of her hair with her freshly-freed hand. Reina’s tresses were a deep, tranquil blue―but cascaded down to her shoulders in waves choppier than the sea’s surface during a midnight storm. And her eyes glowed like warm honey or amber with fossilized wisdom twinkling within. If she had been born with a more outgoing personality, she would surely be the recipient of love letters by the hundreds. As she was now, Reina was predominantly known to others as the demure best friend of the campus busybody, Maho Nakajima. How those two became besties was a tale as old as the creator of _Kirby_ , but being irrelevant to the topic at hand, it would not be told at this time―perhaps at a future date.

Resolving herself to conclude her work soon, Reina scanned the essay’s contents one last time. The soul and substance of her essay involved arguing the merits of labels and titled artworks versus those which were left unnamed. As a museology major (someone who studied museums; amusingly, she had once been asked what instrument she played), it was a subject matter near and dear to her own interests. The interests of her entire family, in fact. Her home itself was the upper floor of a quaint and unabashedly cluttered antique shop in town, and she spent more time brushing dust off curios compared to brushing her own hair. Cinderella’s constant companion was the broom, while Reina had to contend with hagglers, grime, and the even grimier folks attempting to pawn off their forgeries.

She had gone wildly off-topic. Her essay was fine―more than fine. Even the intricate lace curtains crafted by her grandmother’s shaky but skilled hands were not nearly as fine.

The exam hall had been dead silent for quite some time now. Reina furtively raised her head and glanced around the empty space―exactly as she had suspected, she truly was the last student still writing the blasted thing. And rather shamefully, she had milked every single minute she could of the time allotted (even if she hadn’t needed it). Beside the blackboards at the front, leaning back in his folding chair, the middle-aged proctor overseeing the place looked as though he were about to fall over into La-La Land.

Now was the moment to act. Nodding, the examinee rose from her table, gingerly grabbed her exam, and handed it over to the quasi-dozing proctor. Reina made apologies over her belatedness and exchanged short-lived pleasantries before departing from the hall. It was finally over―she had survived the end of the semester! This called for a celebration, which she provided for herself in the form of a cute (but dorky) fist pump and a soft “huzzah!”

* * *

The grounds of Yawata University were awash in a gentle golden glow. It was a bit past seven―but being the summer months―the great yolk in the sky stubbornly clung to his throne, refusing to abdicate and let the midnight monarch rule her rightful reign. As a working-class girl with zero equity in imaginary politics, Reina took it all in stride when she stepped (almost skipped) out onto the campus pavement. She bathed in the tender warmth of the lingering sun and delighted in the westward breeze. The exam hall had been so stuffy, how nice it was to be freed!

Nevertheless, if there were anything defiling the moment and the post-exam catharsis all students were addicted to, then it could only be the hordes of evening cicadas. _Higurashi_. Fatter than crickets, they burdened the tenements with their bulk and composed a cacophonic concert with their cries, comparable to thousands of untuned violins competing to see who was worse. It was an otherworldly clamour that had to be experienced, for description was woefully insufficient. Forlorn and overflowing with melancholy, if the rapids of the Sanzu River had an accompanying chorus, this would be it.

Reina had some time to kill (though she didn’t appreciate that peculiar way of phrasing it―to her, antiquity would always be immortal). Her tiresome bus-to-train route home wouldn’t line up for another hour or so. She entertained the idea of calling Maho on her flip phone (a prehistoric device which lacked the function for text messages and was undoubtedly older than she was) but reprimanded herself when she remembered her friend had an important business meeting that evening. Tapping a finger against her palm, she made a mental note to ask Maho how her foray into entrepreneurship went tomorrow.

And now, back to herself. What was there to do? Free time was hard to come by, and although Reina worried for her grandparents running the shop back home, it wasn’t like she could simply command the transit system to obey her every whim. It was amusing to consider, but to attempt such would be plain nonsense at best and tyrannical at worst. She gazed straight down the campus boulevard, which during busier hours would be teeming with the mishaps and tribulations of bright-eyed adolescents. But at that lonely moment, amid the vacant stares of beady-eyed cicadas, Reina perceived a misplaced puzzle piece somewhere shadowy within herself... and it did nothing but throb―the antithesis to one’s heart.

When beset by pangs of ineffable heartache, Reina knew the best course of action one could take was to walk, walk, and walk some more. She busied herself by letting her soft eyes roam. There were white birch trees lining the lane, tall and thin like stalks of celery. All of their branches apart from the uppermost were pruned, leaving their trunks as smooth as an elephant’s femur. Reina felt the urge to think of them as being “amputated”, even if the loss of tree limbs didn’t quite equate to the loss of human limbs. Was this speciesism? She decided it wasn’t her place to say. Still, how horrific would it be if they had subjected an entire taxonomic kingdom to eons of torture without ever knowing their agony? On second thought, she supposed they did exactly that to lobsters. This was why she would never dine on a crustacean (not that she could afford to).

Reina sighed, light and airy. Perhaps it was best to steer away from such thoughts just like the way those trees veered to the right, away from the university’s shade as if reaching out for the sun, longing for its passion. It had the peculiar effect of making the very ground seem angled, tilting the course its pedestrians took. Being one of those pedestrians, she succumbed to the phenomenon and found herself drawn toward a narrow, fissured path she had seldom seen used. Two sharp yet serpentine turns later, Reina had arrived at a well-hidden alcove behind the vaguely Gothic architecture she recognized as the Department of Theatre. Though its imposing spire and buttresses seemed inappropriate among Kyoto Prefecture’s myriad shrines and rice paddies, Reina rather enjoyed the western aesthetic.

So this, too, was a point of interest that existed. How charming! It had to be acknowledged: Reina had the soul of an explorer and the curiosity of a (yet-to-be-dead) cat.

One section of the wall had a web of vines worming its way through the brickwork, and beneath the ivy-claimed territory stood a lone vending machine. This device was what arrested Reina’s attention, and her dainty feet had her skittering over. Bits of graffiti―ridiculous doodles and garish colours―defaced it like a child plucking flowers from a tomb, but Reina’s eyes maintained their glitter. After all, the vending machine was of a model she presumed had been discontinued―made obsolete. It was nothing like the modern, flawlessly efficient contraptions you could see decorating the neon-washed streets around the city centre. No, it was clunky, cubic, and grotesquely disfigured from rust among other... mysterious stains.

She loved it. Adoration filled her bosom. This machine was the sort of antiquity that held an entire long-gone era within its mechanisms. It was a bridge between the old and the new in ways the woman could barely articulate at the moment due to her giddy enthusiasm.

As luck would have it, Reina could see the machine was still stocked with bizarre beverages of every imaginable sort. Now was a good time to be thirsty (and even reward herself for an exam well done), and she just so happened to have a cumbersome coin tucked underneath her waist belt for occasions such as these.

She pressed her face up against the smudged glass and inspected her options. “Red bean soup... Black tea... Ooh! Green tea infused with strawberries. How novel!” Reina exclaimed as she inserted her coin and double-tapped the button that would deliver her drink.

With a face that resembled a mother hen waiting for its chicks to hatch, Reina waited for the corkscrew to slowly―oh so slowly―unwind and allow the bottle of tea to fall down the chute. She waited, she waited, and she waited... for something that would never follow through. Gravity failed her. Wedged between the screw and the glass, her beverage was utterly trapped. If an explanation was needed as to why the old was always exchanged for the new, then an explanation had just been provided.

Robbery! Nothing short of inanimate banditry! Reina’s heart sank. She pouted and she frowned. She even punted (putting no strength into the hit, for she would never intentionally harm an antique) the machine’s hindquarters in frustration. This was how grudges were born.

* * *

It was her loss. Reina had been giving death glares at the burglar in the guise of a drink dispenser for some time now, but there was nothing she could really do. Only an idiot would do something as foolish as trying to shake their prize free; Reina had no intention of becoming a pancake that evening.

She sighed and stared down at her shoes―wingtips the lovely colour of wine. The sky was starting to dim. It would be time to go home soon, which meant it was time to give up. Just as Reina was preparing to cut her losses and part ways with her mechanical nemesis, there was an occurrence that would ripple through the eternal curtains of reality and change the course of everything. Whether it was to be rowing down the river of serendipity or burning in the hell that was happenstance, the eyeless deity cast her die... and giggled.

Reina wasn’t giggling. The opposite, in fact. Reina was startled when she heard a cymbal crash from one drink dislodging another―domino-style, praise be to physics―causing both to drop to the vending machine’s bottom. Sadly, the girl’s skeleton practically jumped out of her skin when she finally noticed the presence behind her. Instincts springing awkwardly into action, she hopped and endured the contents of her brain rattling when it collided with what could only be someone’s jawbone. If there was a winner in that dreadful scenario, then it would have to be Reina’s precious little head. Skulls were thick.

Reeling from the random bout of headbutt, Reina’s hands soon flew from clutching her head in pain to covering her mouth in horror. This wasn’t the time to be self-centred. Reina turned around to see whom she had just utterly destroyed.

The victim of cranial calamity sprawled on the cement before her was a young, blue-clad man around her own age. If she had to deduce how his cerebrum avoided going splat like a dropped jar of jam, then it was probably the poofy newsboy cap that cushioned his collapse. His thin-framed spectacles were askew on his fine features, encasing his orange eyes―comparable to her own, only a fiercer shade―like paper lanterns.

Now wasn’t the time to gawk at the lanky fellow either! Her heart was thrumming so viciously the scenery seemed to darken, threatening to swallow her vision whole, and the ever-constant cicada cries ebbed like the tide before dawn.

“Oh... Oh my goodness!” was the first line that leapt out of her mouth. An apology soon followed. “I am so incredibly sorry. Please be alive!”

Just as she was about to kneel down and confirm his demise, the man stirred back to life like an automaton. Steadying himself, he gradually rose, and it became apparent just exactly how much taller he was than her―there weren’t many non-Westerners on campus who met the six-foot mark. Rather than groaning, the man tussled his shaggy mane of teal hair in a humble show of humiliation.

“For a moment... I thought I could see the spider lilies of the other shore.” He patted the debris off his shoulders―which were broader than his sleeveless denim jacket allowed them to be.

“Ahaha...” He chuckled then cracked a worldly smile. “I suppose I’ll never fulfill my dream of being a boxer with a glass jaw like mine.”

Reina wasn’t quite sure what to say as she clasped her hands behind her back and swiveled on one foot in a bashful display. For one reason or another, it was difficult to make eye contact with him. “Are you... Are you in good health?” she asked and instantly regretted doing so.

_Oh no, that sounds like I’m asking if he’s mentally sound!_

“I see. It’s very kind of you, but you’re showing far, far too much sympathy to someone who went unannounced. As the one who should be apologizing, I deserved that knockout blow. Hey―this may sound sudden―have you considered taking up MMA?”

She shook her head while bringing a hand up to conceal the small smile that was beginning to form; it didn’t seem appropriate to show signs of merriment to someone she had almost murdered. It was at that moment Reina realized something. She was positive she had heard the tender timbre of his voice—which she would define as modulated, even lyrical—attached to a name at least once or twice during the semester. “Sasa... Sasamori-san?” she wagered and silently prayed for success—missing even the most minute of details was sure to haunt her later.

The man smiled that strange yet gentle smile of his again. “Mm, nice. You could slice the moon in twain with a memory that sharp. Close. It’s Sasamiya, and honestly, there’s no need for honorifics. Old-fashioned, aren’t you? Ahaha, that’s not a bad thing—my family happens to be the same way.”

“I’m Adohira, but feel free to call me Ado.”

“Oh, understood... Um, Ado—” she tried to say but then trembled and cupped her flushed cheeks in shame. “M-My apologies, it seems it simply must be Adohira in full.” It was such a simple task! What in heaven’s name could possibly be wrong with her?

“It’s fine! Seriously, please don’t force yourself,” he said in an almost pleading manner. “Well, I suppose that would be it for introductions. I already know you’re Yachiyo-san—”

“Um, it’s o-okay if you call me Reina,” Reina interjected.

“—I already know you’re Reina,” he continued, seamlessly, “the front-runner for valedictorian in our class at the very least. Famous, aren’t you?”

“Art history with Professor Egokoro. We just had the exam for it,” Reina added due to her habit of filling in the blanks. She had to blush again at his latter statement and fussed with the hem of her dress. “N-No, please, I wouldn’t go so far as to claim that. Fufu...”

“You’re right. I’m just the guy who sits at the back of the class, snoozing in the shade without ever speaking up. I shouldn’t pretend like I know what I’m talking about,” he said in a severe-sounding tone, but she could discern Adohira meant it as a joke. Quite the joker, wasn’t he?

Her eyes followed him as he sauntered past her and bent down to collect their nearly-forgotten beverages. He handed her the bottle of tea, which she accepted graciously (and was very careful to avoid touching fingers), while he kept what looked to be a can of melon soda for himself. “Green tea. Solid choice for cooling down after an exam,” he mused. “Antioxidants are adept at relieving stress.”

“It’s a bit past the best-before date, but still drinkable.”

Expired or not, it didn’t bother the thrifty young lady. She unscrewed the bright yellow cap and took a sip. Tart! Perhaps a little too much so, but the notes of tea were refreshing, and Reina relished anything that tasted of strawberries. It was self-affirming to know she had not wasted her yen.

Adohira placed his right hand on the vending machine’s flank and splayed his long, spidery fingers. “Reina, have you heard the urban legend surrounding this machine? It’s said to be haunted, and anyone whose drink gets caught by the contraption is cursed to—”

“Eek! Enough, enough! Please, no more... I’ll have you know; such superstitions are a weakness of mine!” Reina cried out while plugging her ears rather cutely. And almost reflexively, her fingers then scurried to stroke the golden charm over her collarbone. The charm was in the shape of a clover―for good luck. This incited an amused but ultimately apologetic chuckle from Adohira.

“Well, since you shared your weakness, mine would be... porcelain dolls, I suppose. I can’t take my eyes off them.” He winced after admitting it. “Yeah... You could say only serial killers or those with a rare fetish have similar interests.”

“No, no! It’s not strange at all. I understand―indubitably!” Reina beamed at her comrade-in-arms (and in arts) with diamonds lighting her dreamy gaze. “It’s their craftsmanship, isn’t it? Say, what do you study, Adohira? As for myself, I am a pupil of museology.”

Eyebrows raised, Adohira seemed taken aback by her fervor. “Me? Fourth Year. Performing arts.”

“How marvellous! Would you happen to be an actor?” Like a metronome, her body was swaying from side to side while her hair danced to its own navy blue tune.

“In some ways, sure.” Adohira smiled, a measured smile as if the man were weighing something impalpable. “Though the majority of what I do is done through a medium. I’m not a glamorous guy. Every single ray of starlight should be set aside for the puppets I work with.”

Someone who pulled strings. She had never met a puppeteer before, and it occurred to Reina that every line he delivered—no, narrated—had the markings of poetry, only it seemed natural coming from him. How strange, she mused. It would be Reina’s first encounter with someone like Adohira, even though she already knew this world was overflowing with weird and wicked characters... At that moment, she experienced something tremulous rise up from within her, but she couldn’t quite place its origins.

She went stiff and shivered, but it wasn’t even halfway down the thermometer to being cold.

Adohira acted. “Ahaha, my bad. I can see you’re nervous with me being such a scary stranger and all. I’m grateful you’re going through the effort to respond with such care in the first place, but here’s a suggestion: how about we toss away the script and just ad-lib our lines?” Still unopened, the can of melon soda was being spun on the tip of his finger as he spoke.

“ _Ad libitum_ ―at one’s pleasure,” she translated, tilting her head at his odd offer. Secretly, she felt a little flustered from having her rigid posture called out.

“Looking at it subjectively, it’s rather strange how we suddenly struck up a conversation, yeah? Discussing our exam would be one thing, but our little meeting here was born of a collision―just without the usual toast in our mouths.” With a swipe from his free hand, he doubled the rotation of his beverage to dizzying speeds.

Reina wasn’t exactly an afficionado of anime (and neither was Adohira), but she could tell there was a reference she wasn’t getting and tittered to play it safe. But then again, wasn’t she supposed to be ad-libbing? With that in mind, she would ask what was on her mind. “Oh, now that you mentioned it, how did your exam go? What did you choose to write about? I did mine on the virtues of providing labels for one’s paintings.”

Adohira’s can of pop came to a dead stop. He stared at her through his crystal-clear lenses. “Wow. Believe it or not, my thesis was the exact opposite of yours... Reina, are you familiar with the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier?”

She would never get a chance to answer. After a dreadful delay, Adohira was in the process of lifting his soda’s tab, but all that spinning previously had caused the pressure to skyrocket. Predictably, a malicious carbonated jet burst forth, resulting in a magnum opus of a stain across Reina’s beloved dress.

“Hyaaaa!” she squealed.

“Ah,” Adohira intoned.

“Well done,” said nobody.

The culprit (Adohira) set his cannister of melon-extracted battery acid down and produced tissues from thin air, which he hastily offered to her.

Reina fretted for a while, dabbing at the liquid wherever she could, but it was a futile effort. She’d be smelling like a certain Safalin for the rest of the night. “Haaauu...” she moaned.

“What an absolute tragedy,” Adohira said with remorse sagging his shoulders, “and it was such a beautiful dress on you too... I can tell the bell sleeves were your personal touch. Ugh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s... okay,” she choked back a sob and momentarily left to toss the wettened wad into a nearby trash bin. “Truly, it’s fine! This is karma for what I did to your jaw earlier.” She smiled as well as she could.

His eyebrows knitted, Adohira appeared to search for a wayward train of thought―which soon evolved into him searching through his pockets. He held out a pair of tickets, both of which were adorned with a cartoonish white serpent that had adorably beady eyes and a red _torii_ gate in the background. “Here, for you and a friend. I just remembered my parents have been nagging me to hand out these promotional tickets for our shrine’s festival. As far as compensation goes, it’s not much, but―”

“No, no, not at all! It’s plenty. Thank you.” Reina knew the Japanese way of receiving gifts was to go through a round of refusal first, but she had an inkling that Adohira was begging her to just accept the tickets without putting up a fight. “Hold on, you said your family operates a shrine? How fascinating!”

“Ahaha... I’m actually not the right person to ask if you want to learn more about our faith. To be honest with you, I don’t plan to take over for my parents when they retire because... Ah, I better stop here before I start rambling.”

Reina nodded. She needed no explanation. She instantly understood what he meant as he trailed off, and in numerous ways, the young woman could relate to his plight.

“Anyway”―Adohira took a second to stretch his palms―“the place is called Shirohebi Shrine on Mount Tennōzan, and the festival itself starts next week. It’s a bit of a trip, but you can get there by train in an hour and a half.”

That was no issue. She was used to long train rides; however, it did make her curious about one thing in particular. “Oh my, you live that far away from campus?”

“Well, yes, but it’s not so bothersome for me since I drive which only takes about twenty minutes. There’s the Tennozano Bridge that acts as a shortcut of sorts.”

Intriguing! Despite overflowing with gratuitous knowledge as it were, she had never given much of a thought to their local geography before. Unlike her late parents who were always overseas for work, Reina rarely had a chance to travel. The next thing she wanted to ask was―

“Reina, it’s getting late. The sky’s beginning to blacken, and the sun is in its death throes. You have a bus to catch soon, don’t you?” Wielding the remorseless blade named “Reason”, he slashed apart her snooping. “And as for me... I need to go pick up my little sister from cram school.”

“Oh... Of course.” She fidgeted and was briefly at a loss for words. “Um, then I suppose I’ll see you at the festival, yes?”

“Sure.” Adohira smiled and shot her a swift two-finger salute. “It was nice meeting you, Reina. Stay safe and watch out for strays.”

“Y-You too!” Reina replied and immediately winced at her inelegance. On any other night, she would swear she was a refined young lady!

And with that, Adohira turned around and was on his way. Already, the young man’s blue and teal silhouette seemed to slip into the night. Reina blinked once, then twice, and he had faded like the fog.

Taking a moment to gather herself, Reina reflected on their meeting. She had half-expected him to offer walking her home... and half-wanted it. Past her lake-like veneer of calm, the woman flinched at that admission and her childish candour. It assuredly wasn’t like her to be swept so effortlessly off her feet―especially not by a stranger. How perilous! How horrendously naïve! Borrowing a page from sweet and simple Dorothy’s book, Reina clicked her heels together thrice and visualized an iron chain tethering her to the road.

Reina then recalled what was bugging her. She had forgotten to ask Adohira if he would exchange numbers with her. But then, once again, she shook herself free from her irrational flights of fancy. Reina’s thoughts were thus: boys and girls shouldn’t so readily share their contact information with one another! She took pride in being a traditional girl living in a modern world. And if that were the background scenario for her... then what manner of being would Adohira be?

She took yet another minute to steady the thumping in her chest and patted herself on the cheeks. But Reina knew she couldn’t dawdle the rest of the night away. Adohira had mentioned it himself―there was a bus she needed to catch. Walking was tedious, but all one had to do was begin pumping their feet and with any luck, muscle memory would take care of the rest. Delegation was often essential. And so she left behind that ancient vending machine―the opening antagonist among the many she would come to know.

* * *

It was well and madly dark by the time Reina made it home. Yachiyo Curio, her family’s antique shop, was nestled between a run-down _dagashi_ store that sold sun-melted snacks and a ramen restaurant that was on the verge of going under (and also had issues with rats). It wasn’t the finest of locales, but it was the neighbourhood she had matured to adulthood in... and slowly seen collapse under the economy’s strain. At this late hour, there was only a murder of crows peering down at her from the telephone wires, and a lone raccoon rummaging through the trash. She cautiously stepped around the little rascal and undid the padlock on the front door.

Yachiyo Curio had seen better days―but who hadn’t? The old-fashioned sign carved of wood was ready to topple over at any moment, and the array of chimes that jingled when Reina entered was out of tune. Again, she was a museology major―not someone well-versed in music―and so she wasn’t sure if chimes were something that could even go out of tune, but they sounded off to her. Aside from the bells, she was also greeted by the distinct but not disagreeable (at least to Reina) reek of... well, very old things and very old people. There was a copper tang that lingered in the still air, undertones to the ever-present dust that made landslides seem tidy and breathing a chore.

“Reina, dear? Could that be you?” called out a voice as creaky as the reeds along the Nile. Her esteemed grandmother. There was also some sort of squeaky noise that had Reina concerned.

“Yes, Obaa-san. I’m home,” she replied. “Is everything all right?”

Not deigning to wait for a response that could take ages for her grandmother to formulate, Reina made her way over to the source of the squeaking. Passing rows of grandfather clocks that had long stopped ticking, she discovered―to her horror―her grandmother on a stool attempting to sweep dust from the top of a shelf.

“Obaa-san! Please, get down from there!” Reina hurried to stand at the elderly woman’s side and held the chair so that it wouldn’t wobble.

“Oh, it’s quite all right, dear. I’m fine up here. I only need to finish―”

“No! Please be more considerate of your health. Just think of what happened to poor Humpty Dumpty when he fell. I will take care of everything, so let me help you down now, all right?” Finally, her firm but infirm grandmother―who was one year shy of eighty―conceded and stepped down from the stool with Reina’s help.

“Has Ojii-san gone to bed already?” Reina asked as she sneakily stole the feather duster from her grandmother’s grasp.

“Mm, yes, yes he has... You should think more about yourself, dear,” she echoed Reina’s earlier assertion―the matron’s wit had yet to fade. “You haven’t even eaten yet. I left a plate for you upstairs. Don’t forget to warm it up first.”

The old lady waddled away, and the sound of groaning stairs confirmed she was retiring to bed. And with that taken care of, it was time for Reina to take care of the rest. She removed her ruined dress (thank goodness her grandmother hadn’t noticed), donned a tattered apron, and restrained her wavy hair into a ponytail. Housekeeping mode initiated!

Putting her frail arms to work, she worked herself into a dust-destroying frenzy―flitting to and fro like a fairy... or an unpaid maid. Reina didn’t believe herself to match either of those questionable taxonomies, though false dichotomy dictated that she had to be one of the two. In which case, the woman visibly wasn’t a fairy... but wearing a frilly maid costume was something she would never, ever consider. Except for maybe her special someone. No one heard this. No one could be allowed to hear this. Such secrets were safe in the stronghold of her thoughts (and body) which had never been breached during her twenty-one years of maiden existence.

Shelves were swept, vases were shined, and mirrors were polished. It was unreasonable for Reina to get everything among the hundreds―if not thousands―of assorted antiques sparkling clean, but every bit of work she accomplished now meant one less item for her grandparents tomorrow.

At last, Reina slumped down into the chair behind the front desk and took a moment to marvel at her achievements in perseverance. The antique shop was looking at least... well, at least ten-percent less cluttered. She had tried her best.

Her stomach growled, which was okay since she was alone now. Reina was at the halfway point of starvation and longed to take a shower, but there was something else even more imperative for her to do in that moment. She retrieved her diary from a locked drawer and dipped a crow feather in ink.

_Dear Diary,_

_Tonight’s entry will be shorter than the norm as I find myself in dire need of sleep. I do hope you will understand. Now then, if you’ll allow me a moment of immodesty, I believe I passed my art history exam with colours of the flying sort! I opted for a more flamboyant writing style, which I think Professor Egokoro will appreciate as she is a colourful character herself. That’s all regarding the academic slice of the day’s events._

_I met a boy! Adohira Sasamiya was his name. I had celebrated by purchasing a beverage from an antique vending machine, which summarily fastened itself between the corkscrew and the glass. Frustrated, I flailed about for a short while until my rescuer appeared like a knight in blue armour and― No, stop this at once! Oh gosh, how mortifying... Right now, it truly seems as though I am seeing the world through rose-tinted lenses. You are an adult lady, Reina! You are not in the midst of penning some sprawling fairy tale! Ahem. In hindsight, my behaviour around Adohira seemed bizarre and the entire encounter was haunting in an inexplicable way. Though the man ruined my best dress, I will make sure to use the tickets he gave me in apology and ask Maho if she is available on the day of the festival. Oh, that reminds me... I need to dress appropriately for the occasion!_

_Note to self: remember to rummage around the closet for grandmother’s old yukata. I’m positive she had quite the gorgeous one from her youth._

_I... I do have more to say on the subject of Sasamiya-san. But once again, you must forgive me, for I can feel the blanket of sleep encroaching as we speak. Were I less aware of how insidious our bodily functions can be, I’m sure there would be the risk of me falling asleep right here―quill still in hand. I must eat, and I must shower. Then in the morning, I must remember to rise early and prepare breakfast before grandmother attempts to overexert herself once again. I bid you good night, dear diary._

_P.S. As a final reminder, do make certain that grandfather takes the correct number of pills for his medication. I fear his condition is taking a turn for the worse._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration of Reina was commissioned from and drawn by the masterful hand of Amber Jin on Etsy. You can find them here: https://www.etsy.com/ca/shop/AmberAnimeCommission


	4. Stage 0-4: Cotton Tale

“If everybody minded their own business, the world would go around a great deal faster than it does.”

―Lewis Carroll

Reina was in paradise. Feathery cream caressed her tongue, and when she bit through layers of leavened gateau, syrupy strawberries had her taste buds approach nirvana. She squirmed in her seat with glee. The shop’s strawberry shortcake had definitively earned its rave reviews. And if that weren't enough already, the little cotton ball of a creature snoozing on her lap kept Reina’s heart swooning in circles. Applying her free hand―the one she wasn’t using to gorge herself on confectionaries―she stroked the bunny’s pure white ears. Softer and fluffier than a bed of clouds―she only hoped heaven was half as nice.

“Jeez, you’re really devouring that poor slice of cake. I can’t tell who’s more ravenous: you or the bunnies. Better watch your waistline, babe!” The taunt came from a woman with pinkish-brown tresses tied into a cheekily-tall ponytail from across the table. Predictably, Reina cringed at having her gluttony called out.

This was Maho, her childhood companion and college compatriot. One of the few fixtures in her clockwork circle of a life that weren’t faulty cogs or inanimate antiques. Lounging in her boyish slacks and breezy blouse, Miss Nakajima nestled a latte in one palm while she fed her own Holland Lop―of the cocoa puff variety―a leaf of bok choy.

In protest, Reina huffed and made an indignant whining noise... but halted the beeline her cream-coated fork was making toward her maw.

Maho snorted at her friend’s dilemma. “Go on, take that bite! You know I’m playing. In fact, Reina, you could actually use some more meat on your bones. C’mon, people in our generation―especially the boys―prefer a bit of booty nowadays.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Having obtained permission to resume stuffing her face, Reina mined away at her slab of cake, washed down the sugary debris with a gulp of tea, and proceeded to direct her distress at her gadfly of a bestie. “D-Don’t say something like that―especially not in public! Mahooo!” Reina’s roar was as powerful as a cannon could be coming from a dainty woman inside a café known for its coziness (and odd owners).

“Reinaaa,” Maho sung back. Though distracted by the art of teasing, Maho overlooked what manner of vegetable-shredding monster she was feeding and yelped. Her finger had been nipped by the bloodthirsty bunny. This was proof that Karma acted fast and in the paltriest of reprisals.

The creature―the vampire-in-disguise―lapped at its lips (savouring the rare flavour of hominid blood) before bounding from the business major’s thighs. Together, in fear and silent awe, they watched the chocolate brown bunny hippity-hop away.

“Uh... okay, so! Like, the critters at this bunny café are crazy cute, huh? You can always trust little ol’ Maho to find the best hangouts!” She ignored the inexplicable and laughed it off. From her side of the round table, Reina―though nervous―continued to delicately pet her bunny which would mercifully be more docile than Maho’s had been. At the very least, the rabbits neither fell asleep nor farted in her face like her cat back home did. Reina’s lament was thus: Mocha, the epitome of lazy felines!

“And check out this amazing latte art!” Maho held out her cup to share the intricate facsimile of an arachnid done in milk. “Kind of weird that the dude only draws spiders, but hey, no complaints about the quality from me!”

Reina nodded, taking a moment to wipe her mouth free of fatty evidence with a napkin. “As for me, I’m most impressed by the décor!” Her voice was alive with pompous (but adorably dorky) theatrics; meanwhile, Maho smiled―she knew almost verbatim what sort of spiel was inbound.

“Behold the pastel bunnies that galumph across the pasture painted over these walls! The bright but unobtrusive pendant lamps which hang like carnival flags in festive colours!” Sustaining her prattle, Reina really could not be stopped by anything short of an eight-point earthquake, a tremendous typhoon, Mount Fuji’s long-awaited eruption, an alien invasion, or the bunny in her lap leaping at her face. It could even require all five “natural” disasters to occur at once. There was a peculiar YouTuber with paranormal tastes who would salivate―nay―drool at the thought.

Eventually, Reina reached the natural conclusion to her ode when she became aware of all the stares she was attracting from the other patrons. She had been standing, her arms gesticulating in every possible angle, but was now seated again with a pink tint to her features and the bunny back on her knees.

“Ahem,” she started, trying to salvage the situation and steer their conversation back on course. “Maho, I’ve been meaning to ask. How did your most recent meeting go? If I recall correctly, it was about investing in and revitalizing a particular business district?”

The intrepid entrepreneur’s face fell—literally, not figuratively; Maho hung her head and planted both elbows onto the tablecloth in a posture that declared defeat. “Ugh, I was wondering and dreading when you’d ask. In two letters: NG.” A half-second elapsed, and Maho remembered her friend wasn’t exactly up to date with the latest lingo. “No good,” she clarified.

Like a mother-in-the-making, Reina placed a consoling hand on Maho’s forearms but said nothing. She didn’t have to ask what went wrong; she knew the gregarious gal would begin ranting on her own in no time flat—and this was true, true, categorically true! Gloominess didn’t glorify her. Maho had the type of recovery which would put flatworms to shame (if those primitive pancakes could even emote at all).

The coals in her bowels were stoked, and Maho’s engine roared to life. She stood from her chair, imbibed the greater half of her latte in a seamless series of swallows, then sat straight back down like she was determined to bet her soul on a game of cards. If that pearlescent-haired beauty—the genuine gambler—were there, dining with the duo, she would have glared at the girl who began her bombast.

“Ah, jeez! Where do I even begin?” Maho exhaled and the sudden squall blew some of her latte’s steam over to tickle Reina’s nose. Reina was no food critic, but even she could smell the sheer dosage of espresso infused into the steam—roasted to a refined bitterness. It was a pick-me-up beverage that truly spoke to who her friend was.

“So our group has already reimbursed and received permission from the local owners to start our gentrification project... except, except, except!” She raised a finger to invoke the time-honoured dramatic pause. “There’s still one holdout: a family diner.”

Just mentioning a diner must’ve made Maho hungry, because she took some time to munch on a bun masterfully baked into the shape of a bunny. Patient when the situation called for it, Reina waited and mused to herself how disparate the predilections between the co-owners were. Surely spiders and bunnies could not coexist.

“Oh, and get this,” Maho said, having resumed her speech, “the place is run all alone by this plucky girl who should really be in school. Her stubbornness... reminds me of you, actually. It’s even admirable... but mostly sad.”

Maho massaged her forehead for a few seconds. “You know I don’t like having to tell the girl her home has gotta go and get bulldozed to make way for the new, but we’re really doing her a favour. I tried the food myself—it’s great if a tad greasy—but the business is legit on its last legs. The girl’s got guts, but sometimes that’s just not enough to make it in this world.”

“I understand her plight, and yours as well,” Reina said in her dulcet butterfly voice. “I know full well how disheartening it is to be told the home you grew up in is to be torn down. Maho, all those years ago, you made a herculean effort to help my family when our own store rested at the brink of bankruptcy.

“You must be feeling guilty right now, but rest-assured, I believe you have the young lady’s best interests in mind. You are not some callous loan shark—you are a spirited developer. Take pride in such!” She raised her fork—still shiny with the remnants of her saliva—as if giving a toast and cheered, “Huzzah!”

Almost immediately, Maho bowled over in a fit of laughter. “Oh man, sorry, that’s just too good. You can always count on Reina to make your ribs hurt!”

Reina had gotten somewhat used to being bullied (even if only jokingly), but unbeknownst to her, she possessed no inkling of the depthless fathoms that awaited her in the days to come. But for now, she simply pouted—contesting the urge to smile—until her friend’s laughter subsided. “Well, at the very least, I’m glad you seem to be in good spirits again, Maho.” Her voice now had a barb to it, and it was the barb of a honey bee’s stinger.

“Sorry, I’m sorry!” Exploiting her pearly-white business smile, she begged for and quickly gained Reina’s pardon. “Still, it’s too bad your shop looks like it’ll have to shut down in a few years anyway, huh? In the end, there’s just not a whole lot we can do about the economy. Haha... Before you know it, we’ll all be replaced by robots.”

Reina’s smile was pallid but projected an air of strength nonetheless. Fingers interlocked, she said, “It’s fine... Nostalgia, sentimentality, and melancholy—I’ll admit to being a victim of all three. Regardless, I recognize our lives and our sense of self must march on as we continue to adapt to a world that is ever changing. Fufu, even I may be a modern girl, I’ll have you know!” Though as Reina spoke aloud, entombed within the warren of her thoughts, her beating heart questioned the truth. Was she weaving a tale of lies whiter than cotton? If it existed at all, the answer would change very little.

Oblivious but not unmindful, Maho reacted with another chuckle, more subdued than the last. “Yeah, is that so? Not sure if I’m one-hundred-percent on catching all of that, but I get what you mean.”

Of course she did. She was Maho Nakajima, the only name listed under Reina’s personal contacts.

“Tch, what a pain,” she grumbled and took another sip from her latte which was starting to cool. “Sorry, it’s me—not you. That speech of yours would’ve been right at home in one of those Josei manga, but I’m still not feeling so great about the whole affair. I feel sort of murky, maybe? It’s like I’m drowning under all this... this mood of... Reina, help me out here.”

“Malaise, perhaps?”

“Not exactly sure what that means, but hey, it sounds about right.” Maho let out a teensy chortle, her wrinkles of weariness slightly worn away from the act. “Classic Reina. Leave it to Little Miss Thesaurus and her fancy-schmancy words to wreck all her foes in _Scrabble_ ,” she claimed with a wink. “Hey, have you thought about joining the national team yet?”

Being dubbed a thesaurus made the woman sound as though she were a terrible lizard from the Cretaceous period, but this wasn’t what she was fixated on. Instead, Maho’s sense of humour had Reina recalling a certain encounter at a vending machine, which then reminded her of the tickets in her purse. She had custody of something that would surely restore her friend’s good cheer!

“Oh, Maho!” she shouted—suddenly and without subtlety.

“Jeez, are you trying to give me a heart attack?! What are you, pregnant or something?”

Reina, poor Reina, nearly toppled over in her chair—taking her cottontail as collateral—when she jolted back as though she had been shoved by a sumo wrestler. One episode of furious (but paradoxically bashful) outrage later, she had managed to explain the bizarre events leading to her acquisition of those festival tickets.

“Woah... Hold the flippin’ phone and I don’t mean yours,” she said, referring to Reina’s flip phone. “Let me get this straight: a guy gave you tickets—two tickets—to a festival. You. Reina. And a guy.” Maho’s eyes were utterly bugged out and seemed ready to pop out of their sockets at any moment.

Unsure of where exactly her friend was going with this, all Reina did was nod. Many would claim that Reina—the undoubted genius—was at her cutest when she was being a bit dumb.

“Oho?” Maho’s tone was wicked, her grin even more so. “Yo, you go, girl! After all these years, I was beginning to think you didn’t have it in you! Snared him with some of that honey trap action, huh? A dash of damsel in distress to get him hot and bothered.”

She was unprepared for spontaneity of this scandalous nature. Flabbergasted to a ghastly extent, Reina’s eyebrows rode up her pate with the speed of an ejecting toaster, and she sputtered, “Wh-What in good heavens could you be on about?!”

Despite the girl’s vehement defence, Maho would not be fooled. She was a shrewd woman whom even used car salesman dared not to engage in swindling. Sea-green eyes the shade of malachite, she took note of Reina’s legs cutely kicking underneath the table and snickered with coyote-like delight. “Puh-lease, babe. You’re obviously going on a date—that’s D-A-T-E—with this oh so mysterious stranger. Ooh la la!”

Reina knew she was rapidly losing ground; however, she refused to go gently and struck back with all her valour. “N-No! I deny your b-baseless conjecture at its roots! Wholeheartedly and without reserve!” Like any respectable attorney, it was time to call upon the aid of logic. “N-Now listen closely, young lady. If this gentleman really were—”

“Girl, you seriously just called him a ‘gentleman’ of all things. Oh my god, you have it so bad—”

“S-S-Silence! Order in the court!” Imitating a gavel, Reina reached over to weakly bring her fist down upon her friend’s skull and the shameless contents stored within. “Allow me to finish! If this young man had truthfully intended to woo me, he would not have needed to bestow two tickets upon my person. The other would be for a friend of my choosing, and might I add that you—Maho, my dear—are currently at risk of losing the privilege!”

“Ahh! How could you be denser than the protag in a brain-dead rom-com?” Her hands flew up in plain exasperation. “When a guy gives you tickets to anywhere―the movies, amusement parks, festivals, his bedroom, or whatever―he’s clearly asking you out! And you should say yes! This melon-soda-drinking bastard even sounds like his family’s rolling in dough!”

But Reina was no longer intent on listening. Instead, she had learned that in a pinch, fluffy bunnies made excellent earmuffs. How versatile!

“Pfft, okay, okay, I get it. The dude wants a threesome,” Maho suggested with a nonchalance that was startling (and flawlessly formulated to screw with Reina’s delicate sensibilities). “So, is he a hottie or what? Either way, I’m down to clown. Let’s blow his mind... and maybe some other parts too while we’re at it, wink-wink.”

Try as she may, there was no way to avoid hearing this. The only saving grace was that Reina had no idea what the “wink-wink” and its preceding offer implied. Her innocence—like a snowflake from the stars—was beautiful to behold and far more fragile. _Handsome...? Devilishly so!_ Reina squealed inside her head while her lips went Ziploc tight. Unfortunately, her blush was as reliable a tell as any.

“Reinaaa,” her friend teased once again.

“Mahooo!” the Reina in question fired back as usual.

In spite of the rising tension―or perhaps precisely because of it―the senior-year ladies shared a giggle and resumed some semblance of their former conversation.

“Well, knowing you, it wouldn’t matter if the dude’s a hottie or not. Better to be noble than to be born a noble, no?” Yes. As expected of a businesswoman, she was right on the money.

Not deigning to play the woman’s game, Reina cleared her throat and replied, “I am appealing for my right to a non sequitur! Will you be accompanying me to the festival or not?”

Maho’s smirk never faded even as she flicked through her schedule on her smartphone. “Hmm... Yup! Seems like it. I should be good for next week.” She flipped her ponytail as though she were doing a photo shoot and sighed dreamily. “I can’t even remember the last time I wore a yukata... Hee-hee. Maybe I should order one of those itty-bitty pieces of silk online? The sexy ones that barely cover your legs.”

“Maho! There will be hordes of children there!”

“Jeez! As always, I’m just kidding! Relax―I’m not gonna steal your boyfriend or anything.”

“For the final time, he is n-not my b-boyfriend!”

“Oh, my sweet baby Reina, all grown up... I’m so proud, I think I’m about to cry.”

Coursing down Carroll River in their rowboat, a rainbow over their heads, the girls would cherish their final time together. Their serene quarrel would run on and on until the latte had gone glacial and the bunnies became beyond bored... only to renew itself once the bill arrived. Maho had the funds, whereas Reina was dragged down by her pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the relatively short chapter! This scene was originally part of the next chapter (which is roughly twenty-five-percent done), but I decided that it would fit better as its own chapter. I would also like to mention that—like countless others—classes have started for me, and I'll be very busy, but I have no intention of pausing this story. It may take some time, but rest assured, we've only just begun our journey into the treacherous deeps. From the bottom of his tiny heart, this humble spider thanks you for being here.


	5. Stage 0-5: She of the Shirohebi

“In heaven, all the interesting people are missing."

―Friedrich Nietzsche

Prissy Reina was beginning to wonder if she would ever be blessed with a normal day again—a day when the most colossal of her conundrums was deciding what to have for breakfast that morning. Reality reminded the young lady this had never been the case for her, but she could still hold onto some filament of hope, couldn’t she? Maybe not. Troubles were stacking up like pancakes on the poor girl’s plate—their flavour profile was thus: starchy, fruitless, and sorely lacking in syrup. Desert-dry desserts unlike the ones she had at the café last week. Deflated confections to match her deflating heart.

She stood precariously with her favoured foot—the right—on the twentieth step (she had been counting, impressively detail-oriented as she was) and her lagging foot on the step below. Dressed in her grandmother’s chrysanthemum-patterned yukata, Reina looked like a burgundy blip on the flight of stairs leading up to the shrine grounds. There were still another eighty steps or so until the plateau at which the festival activities were purportedly being held, though the festive mood was clear enough from where she was. Despite being blunted by the impenetrable black pine, Reina could hear the dynamic beat of taiko drums up above, and she wasn’t the only pilgrim making her way up the stairs either. Families with white-haired elders in tow scaled the steps far faster than her—they were likely locals and better acclimated to the mountainous terrain, she reasoned to keep her shame in check.

Of course, a few of the other yukata-clad girls were having nearly as much trouble as Reina in their wooden sandals. She had excuses she could use. Far from the city, she wasn’t used to these conditions at all, nor the thin mountain air which snatched her breath (in actuality, most of this was the property of placebo—they really weren’t too far above sea level).

Aggravated by the notoriously humid evenings of Japan’s summers, Reina stood—but more like slumped—in place, giving off the impression of a wet tissue. Drenched in the rare sweat of a girl who held no love for exercise, Reina’s yukata became burdensome to her shoulders. And her hair, which she had received the aid of her grandmother in transforming into a beautiful bun, was frizzier than a Pomeranian fresh out of the dryer. Honest to heaven, her hair was hellish.

For all the set-up, the actual source of Reina’s tribulations stemmed not from her bad hair day (at least, not entirely). For you see, Reina had paused her pace up the stairs not only to catch her breath, but also to receive a call. She was currently in the middle of that call, her free hand making frantic gestures as if casting a witch’s curse. _Alarmus Exasperato!_

“Where am I? No, allow me to reverse the query: where are you? I am already nearing the shrine!”

Maho’s garbled voice among the mountain’s chronic case of cicadas formed the ambience for a little while. Cherry-picked from the audio were snippets such as the classic “sorry”, an acknowledge of the sacred “fries before guys” law, but also her confession of being “thirsty for that milkshake”, whatever on earth that meant. To Reina, it simply spelled betrayal.

Still, she had to be accepting of her friend’s excuses for not being able to meet her at the festival. As short notice as it was, from what Reina could gather, Maho herself had not being expecting to suddenly hit it off with a “fiendishly charming hottie” just an hour ago and was now being swept off her feet for an impromptu dinner date. Objectively speaking, this wasn’t all too dissimilar from the events that had strung Reina along to where she was now. This sort of fact was best left unmentioned. Wholly unmentioned.

Reina distanced herself from the salt spray of irritation assailing her, pausing her fuming to reflect in a more refined manner befitting the good Yachiyo name. Soon enough, she stymied her negative feelings and decided this was something to be glad for. She knew Maho was as picky as they came, and unlike wasps, only pursued a particular sort of target rather than stinging willy-nilly. When an opportunity landed before a lady, she had to be ready to spring her jaws. Because when it came to romance, brutality and beauty were to be treated as synonyms. These weren’t exactly Reina’s beliefs per se, but further up the mountain, indeed, there was a girl—garbed in red-white robes—who would preach those exact words. Reina would be meeting her very soon. Horrendously soon.

Releasing one of those sharp sighs that spelled “it can’t be helped”, Reina accepted her fate to fly solo. Fanning herself with one hand, she permitted Maho to do as she pleased. She imagined her friend was currently all smiles on the other side of the line, and this made the woman smile too.

Maho blew an audible kiss over the phone and wished her good luck with her own “date”, to which blushing Reina rebuked it wasn’t one. And that was that. Miles away, the friends parted on their respective journeys from there. Few partings were without tears—this was one of them.

* * *

Eighty onerous steps later—which had Reina cursing her existence—she had arrived at the summit where a torii gate stood like some scarlet-skinned guardian with arms outstretched in a sumo’s stance. Beyond, the festival laid in plain view. Dozens of stalls were set up in straight rows, while festivalgoers flitted between them, chasing one novelty after the next. Enticing scents such as saucy yakisoba roped in patrons by their bellies, whereas more colourful stalls that held games and prizes drew in the youngsters. There was almost too much stimuli to absorb at once. All throughout, decals and decorations were dominated by white snakes, the apparent patron deity of Shirohebi Shrine (which was obvious enough from the shrine’s name itself). There were even some in the form of flags fluttering like fish. How cute. Sacrilegious, perhaps? She couldn’t claim the expertise to make a judgment.

The last light of dusk had long since resigned from its daily duty. In its place, paper lanterns strung along the stalls lit the locale, dyeing the white-tiled lanes auburn. During the daytime, Shirohebi Shrine belonged to its sacred albino snakes. At night, it blossomed into a silk moth’s paradise.

Returning to her previous observation, Reina found herself wondering if every single festivalgoer (of the several hundred or so) was an affiliate of the Shirohebi faith, but that line of speculation didn’t make sense after close examination. It was more likely that the majority were like her—here to enjoy the festivities regardless of religion. It was very Japanese, in a way. To her scholastic credit, Reina recalled the maxim which condensed their nation’s syncretic spirit: the Japanese are born Shinto, marry Christian, and die Buddhist. Somehow, she imagined similar words coming from Adohira’s mouth. His handsome lips. Reina blinked. _Ah, anyway..._

“Hwah?!” she exclaimed after being nudged to the side by a burly man who shook his head at her. It was then that Reina noticed she was standing in the way of traffic before the gate, lost in an academic stupor as usual. What a terrible habit. She really needed to get that fixed. Fuelled by the added incentive of avoiding embarrassment, Reina shuffled her way on geta-bottomed feet into the revelry of the crowd.

Poor Reina was swallowed whole by the undulating mass of regular human beings. Though it wasn’t quite comparable in density to a shoal of sardines, nevertheless, the deep-seated desire to avoid bumping elbows added to the illusion. More accurately, making her way through the crowd in search of some space to breathe felt like those arcade games involving asteroid collisions. The fact that the breeze was offensively balmy, and the people equally sweaty, didn’t help matters in the slightest.

But still, the woman soon found herself soaking in the festival mood. Pangs of long-forgotten and well-fermented nostalgia wafted from deep within. Those memories frothed and fizzled just below the boiling point of fruition. Tiniest bubbles of reminiscence—more a sea form than anything solid—they were only sufficient for Reina to remember she had gone to similar festivals in the distant past, during an age when her sandals were smaller, the world taller, and her grandparents spry. She tried to focus, but at best it was like viewing the moon through a faulty telescope—through lenses smeared with dirt. A secondary simile could have involved a kaleidoscope and its psychedelic fractals, but then again, the film reel that was Reina’s life may have been a touch too monotonous to warrant the comparison.

There was a lie hidden somewhere in there. No less than one. No more than two. It was a secret.

* * *

Of all the unusual sights she had seen in her twenty-one years of life, this one stood out. Standing by a stand lined with Shinto charms—pouches encasing prayers called _omamori_ —there was a girl with locks of metallic grey, long-limbed yet nimble as a nymph. Despite the girl being a hand taller (Reina knew an offhand fact or two about measuring horses), Reina could guess she was her junior by a half-decade on account of little besides the feminine instinct. It was like when two lionesses from rival prides met in the wild. Pupils narrowed. Breaths sharpened. Claws were unsheathed. All of a sudden, Reina felt threatened.

The girl had uncommonly pale skin and wore the red and white raiments typical of shrine maidens, but there was clearly something erroneous about it. Many things. Unusual to the utmost. Traditional _miko_ didn’t have detached sleeves exposing their tender upper arms or wear gigantic red ribbons playing the part of a rabbit’s ears. Her version of the attire came across as cutesy cosplay more than anything that was authentic. If Reina, in her spare time, had consumed more pop media, she would slam the girl for resembling one of those frilly idols whose stage-conquering charisma were a front for their cutthroat tactics behind the curtain: scandals! Meanwhile, the miko pranced in place upon the consecrated grounds, hopping and tossing her bone-white sleeves up into the air every so often as she peddled her wares. It begged the question: were miko also merchants?

Sensing her mortality—or at least sensing her sanity was at stake—Reina started backpedalling. What was it that wildlife experts and survivalists were often quoted saying? Stay calm! Back away slowly. And most importantly, do not make eye contact. Sadly, Reina was never the most graceful of girls. She stumbled on her wooden sandals, and this drew some attention to her. It almost felt like she was in a parody when the shrine maiden locked eyes with her. As though it were a nightmare unfolding in slow-motion, the miko merrily skipped—in essence, lunged—toward her with something akin to murder in her eyes. _Oh, balderdash!_ Reina cursed her misfortune.

“Greetings, Onee-chan! Shirohebi-sama’s blessings upon you!” The girl’s oh-so sugary voice may have matched her outfit, but it didn’t match the way her body undulated like a hooded cobra. It was as if one wrong move meant receiving a faceful of flesh-melting spit.

Caught like a deer in the headlights, Reina was paralyzed. Why did these things always happen to her, specifically? Was she born under an unlucky star? She tried her best to deny her superstitious side, but the shrine maiden’s next words caught her by surprise. They made her mouth lose all moisture.

“Ooh? What’s this? Sasami-sama is in touch with the spirits, so she can tell!” She triumphantly clapped her palms together and struck a pose with one leg lifted behind her. “Onee-chan is suffering from a cute little cursey-curse! Hee-hee!”

Reina flinched. How could this girl have known...? Was there really some truth to her sixth-sense claims, or was she merely making a generalized shot in the dark—a devious trick abused by most fortune tellers. There was another—if unrelated—matter that arrested the woman’s mental faculties. _Referring to oneself in third-person, the act of Illeism... and using the -sama honorific, no less! How much more arrogant could this girl possibly be?_

Seizing her opportunity, the shrine maiden advanced on Reina’s bunker. This, too, was trench warfare. “Onee-chan looks like a traditional girl who dreams of marriage, just like Sasami-sama, but you don’t put much stock into spiritual matters, do you? Sasami-sama knows all too well,” she said, or rather sang. “That’s exactly why Sasami-sama must educate you on our patron deity, Shirohebi-sama! Shirohebi-sama is the native goddess who held dominion over this mountain long before Japan was even a nation. Her domain includes both blessings and curses! And as her divine messenger, Sasami-sama should tell you truthfully, Onee-chan would do well to donate her funds and receive an omamori, free of charge!”

Reina felt herself being pushed back by the shrine maiden’s storm of words—her frontal assault. In fact, the younger but leggier girl was literally pressing herself up against the woman, dangling silk pouches and wooden amulets in her face. From what she could gather, this Sasami girl was trying to swindle her. It seemed that shame wasn’t a part of the girl’s vocabulary. And although it was true that Reina didn’t consider herself religious in the least, a welling fear of the supernatural had sprung a leak in her defences. _Haauu... If only Adohira hadn’t made a jest regarding the vending machine’s curse. I react to such jokes with dire severity, I’ll have you know!_

Her fury was sparked. She reminded herself to remain in the present moment—that she was in the process of being swindled. Conned! Nothing was more deviant in her mind. Reina cleared her throat, having finally gathered her words and the know-how to use them. “Um, excuse me, but—”

“No buts! You absolutely need an omamori or two—or three—blessed by Shirohebi-sama herself! Hee-hee, for the lovely Onee-chan, only 1,500 yen per charm!” Smiling wider than the forsaken horizon, the shrine maiden almost literally threw a wink at her. Her lashes were full and fluffy—fit for a moth’s antennae. “Buy now while stocks last!”

For the love of God, there was just no getting through to the girl. This juvenile was an iron wall. Frankly speaking, Sasami was a beautiful child, even divinely so. In possession of heaven-sent looks that made up for a dreadful personality. In spite of herself, Reina felt the tiniest prick of dissatisfaction, and that feeling doubled when she realized she was comparing herself to a girl who could barely be older than sixteen. The woman would allow herself to be roadblocked no longer. No mercy. Cuteness be damned! She would mow down this overzealous miko with the charming face but creepy smile, trying to sell her similarly creepy charms for her supposed curse. En garde—have at you!

Just as Reina was sharpening her (verbal) rapier and preparing an excuse to leave behind the miko careening in concerning, vulture-like circles around her, there came a voice that weaved its way through the crowd. “This again? Our parents would cry if they knew you were trying to extort people.”

 _That tender yet exasperated tone... His voice! Only his!_ Reina spun on her heels and saw Adohira making his way over at a leisurely pace. He had his hair partially bound in a short, samurai-esque ponytail and was wearing a yukata in his usual shade of curious blue. She also noted the young man’s neckline was loose enough for his pectorals to be peeking through and had to resist the impulse to go red... which she summarily failed at.

At the same time, Sasami’s pink eyes lit up like neon signs, and she smirked mischievously. “Hee-hee! Onii-chan smells of other women—sneaky, sneaky! How unfair! While Sasami-sama was working her poor little limbs to the bone, Onii-chan was off playing with other girls!”

 _Oh? Did she just say “Onii-chan”? Oh dear, so this was the younger sister that Adohira spoke of. The one he had to pick up from cram school... Hmm, I see now. Their eyes—in their sharpness—do bear a resemblance to one another. Wait, what was this about him playing with other girls?!_ Her head swam with a whirlpool of worries.

Sighing the way big brothers often had to, Adohira used a gentle (read: evil-slaying) fist to bop her on the noddle. “Sheesh, quit ruining my reputation. Don’t be a bad little slice of sashimi. Other women? I was just with Mom. You already know that’s her perfume.”

Sure enough, the young man was cloaked in an aroma far too flowery to be called cologne. For whatever reason, Reina idled on the scent some more. Fleeting speculations of hers considered if Mama Sasamiya—head priestess of the Shirohebi faith—would truly dare to wear such an immodest perfume. It just didn’t match. That said, perhaps she was falling prey to religious stereotypes. She had never met the woman, and thus she truly couldn’t say. More pressingly, there was a miko of undetermined danger right within arm’s reach.

“Waah! Domestic violence!” the girl cried in—obviously phony—pain while clutching her head. With speed that seemed unnatural, she slithered behind Reina, appropriating her as a meat shield. “Save me, Onee-chan!”

Reina made squeaking sounds as she wriggled in panic. The girl’s proximity alone made her skin crawl with the impression of maggots. “Unhand me, you unscrupulous creature!” she cried and looked to Adohira for aid.

“Waah, big words! Onee-chan talks like a granny!”

“I am not trained for hostage situations...” Adohira grumbled. He scratched his neck while taking a ginger step forward. “Sasami. Bad. Very bad.”

This was the miko’s cue to make her bid. She spun out of Reina’s shadow, twirling like a ballet dancer, until she stood before her brother. “Hug!” A request so simple it could be read in binary.

Adohira responded appropriately: he formed an “X” with his arms. “Denied.”

Immediately, Sasami pouted. Her pale cheeks puffed up. She furiously flapped her sleeves, which, depending on how generous the beholder was, could be likened to a chicken rendered flightless by fat... or a fluttering bug. The girl began chanting, “Onii-chan! Onii-chan! Give hug! Give hug!”

Three swift pats to the head silenced her furor. She giggled, satiated for the time being.

Reina was content to remain still, observing their relationship from her relatively peaceful perch. _Adohira is undeniably adept at quelling the girl’s tantrums. Is this what it means to be an older sibling? If I were in his place, dealing with that imp of a maiden... No, I shan’t entertain such an appalling thought._

“Sasa-sasa!” Sasami abruptly... blew a raspberry? Reina couldn’t fully tell what that satanic noise was, but it reminded her of a rattlesnake’s rattle. “Sasami-sama stills thinks that Onii-chan doesn’t spend enough time with her. Shirohebi-sama would agree!”

_More heretical speak, I see..._

“Maybe don’t put words into the mouth of Shirohebi-sama,” he replied. Then after a slight pause, he continued, “Well, you do have a point... Still, I’m not the one who intends to stay at the shrine forever. I’m the wayward son, while you’re the upstanding daughter.”

“Sasami-sama, the upstanding eldest daughter!”

“You’re the only daughter.”

“Eldest only daughter and Onii-chan’s most beloved imouto!”

“Uh, again, you’re my only little sister. Flesh and blood.”

“Hee-hee, Sasami-sama is the only one for you, hmm? M-O-N-O-G-A-M-Y. That spells monogamy! Seems like there’s no room for Onee-chan!” she said with a glint in her eyes aimed at Reina that was unmistakably smug. The curl of her lips suggested the same.

On her side of the squabble, Reina was stunned into disbelief. _Hold on...! Do my ears deceive me, or did this girl just imply she desires matrimony with her—_

“Wow, time sure flies, huh? Looks like we’re done here!” Adohira—timely as always—interjected. “C’mon, Reina. Let’s run. Fast.”

“Wait, what? Huh?” Once again, Reina cursed her inelegance in the heat of the moment.

“Yeah, I haven’t apologized enough for staining your dress, so let me drag you around and show you the sights. Humour me, would you?” He offered his hand. The skin was criss-crossed with silvery scars—the sign of a diligent artist, or otherwise a mad one—while his fingers were sleek, almost spidery.

_Mm, you should be more concerned about the stain you left on my heart... Gah, get a hold of yourself, girl!_

Reina’s hesitance was momentary. “O-Okay...” She settled her smaller hands into his. Their palms fitted like a Matryoshka doll, a very calming sensation. With a gentle tug, Adohira began guiding her away, though not without some sisterly protest from a nearby source.

“Waah! You meanies! Sasami-sama wants to play too!”

“Then you should’ve done better on your exams, yo.”

That happened to be a critical blow. Utterly defeated but deciding her demise must be dramatic, the shrine maiden swooned until her sleeves met the ground. Even certain snakes knew how to play dead.

* * *

“My little sis is really... She’s overwhelming, huh? Makes you wonder just how bad an influence her big brother be.” He chuckled his customary “ahaha”, though his expression was uneasy. Reina offered a slight nod. She could hardly imagine how chaotic their shared childhood must have been. She just about pitied him, but to do so felt somewhat wrong. It felt condescending.

At a different end of the festival, beside a stall displaying clay masks, they were now some distance from the scene of the crime where _Sasami-sama_ had decided to “off” herself. Seppuku? No matter—what mattered was that they were safe at last.

Reina, and perhaps Reina alone, was extremely cognizant of the fact that Adohira was still holding her hand; she prayed he would continue to do so just a little longer... No sooner than she had dreamt that perilous longing, the man deftly slipped his grip from hers. It seemed Sasami wasn’t the only snake in her family—Adohira’s arm was a serpent in its own right.

“Sasami used to be such a cute little sister, making me promise to marry her when she grew up... And then puberty hit like a train, she never stopped, and it was long past being creepy.” He sighed, heavier than before. “I’m probably gonna have to fret over her for the rest of our days... Huh, how do I explain it? As her brother, I just want to be sure she’ll be all right even if I’m no longer around. Life happens.” It was his turn to blink. “Ah, sorry for troubling you with my family issues. I started venting before I knew it.”

A motherly smile was present on Reina’s lips. “Shh, please don’t apologize to me, Adohira. First of all, I’m very happy we had the chance to meet again. This was all quite unexpected, I’ll have you know!” She clucked at him. “Now regarding your, um, charming”—she couldn’t avoid cringing—"sister, could you perhaps explain why she possesses such a... possessive streak? It would help me understand the situation a bit better.”

She wasn’t aware of why until afterwards, but Adohira stared at her for a few inexplicable seconds before saying, “This shouldn’t be too related, but I guess it’s worth mentioning for context if nothing else. Mm... Tradition once decreed siblings of the Sasamiya lineage needed to marry for the sake of preserving our ‘spiritual purity’, whatever that is.“ He made a face and shuddered.

“I’m sure you’re already familiar with the practice of intermarriage among antiquities’ royals, which is fairly similar. Anyhow, this mandated incest ended with the generation of my great-grandparents. I’m guessing it’s because the government outlawed it and whatnot.

“Yikes. Well, that’s about as much as I want to say on the topic. Sorry for grossing you out with our genealogy.” At that, he stretched his hands over his head.

“No, no, ‘twas not a stab at my sensibilities. Family history is a subject dear to me, and to feel ‘grossed out’, as you put it, would be a museologist’s shame! It was most intriguing, Adohira, and I would love to hear more in the future...” _Oh, did I just commit a blunder?_ “I-If you are comfortable with it, of course!” Reina added hastily, hoping to correct what she perceived as a social misstep.

“Sure, some other time,” he said. “Hey, I’ve been a terrible host so far. I haven’t even mentioned that you look lovely tonight. The yukata you’re wearing is from the Shōwa era, isn’t it? Its chrysanthemum pattern suits you perfectly.”

If there were a need for an oven, Reina’s head in that instant would have sufficed. She was caught completely off guard by his sudden compliment, and it took all she had to avoid sputtering. “Y-You too...”

You could practically see the question mark appearing over Adohira’s head.

Right after hand-fanning herself down to an operative temperature, she reconsidered his praise. _Ahh! I’m thankful, but surely, you’re only saying that to be kind... I’m dripping with sweat right now. My appearance must be so slovenly..._

“Uh, Reina? I think I know what you’re concerned about. I can see it written on your lips. I guess I’ll just say some weird stuff.” This time, he scratched his cheek. Reina hypothesized he was most likely to do so when he was feeling nervous.

Adohira adjusted his glasses, and then said, “Many perfumes are formulated to intentionally be paired with the body’s natural odours. I believe the one you’re wearing right now, dabbed on the nape of your neck, has reached its heart notes in harmony with your perspiration. Hmm, and this herbal blend consists of... well, I better not name them all.” He concluded his assessment with a snap. “Wow, it should be a crime to be this nerdy.”

 _Eek! How could he tell?! Don’t panic, Reina, don’t panic! Recall the words of your grandmother... Nope, I’m drawing a blank!_ Turmoil ruled from within, though she was making progress when it came to maintaining a veneer of tranquility.

Reina decided to let her mind meander. What a gorgeous night it was! The stars would soon shine through the heavenly aether above, and there were still so many festivities left to be had. She wondered if there would be fireworks later, and if Adohira would take her to see them.

She wondered if this really was a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terrible, aren't I? Not only did this take forever, I ended up splitting the chapter again! Okay, I promise the next chapter will be the true end of the prologue. I'm eager to get to the actual Death Game and reintroduce all the colourful characters we met during the vignettes too, y'know? Thanks for waiting. See you next time!


	6. Stage 0-6: Goodbye, World!

“Don't worry, Gretel. Sleep well. God will not forsake us.”

―Hansel

A red sneer slapped onto an endless field of snow. Smiling when upturned—lapping up the lantern light—and scowling when facing the untilled earth. Encircled by an almond outline, black pearls befitting a doll’s eyes stared into her own. Wiry locks as dark as greed framed the floating face. It spoke with lips unmoving.

“This type of mask is called _Waka-onna_. In traditional Noh theatre, it’s used to express an elegant beauty, brimming with youth,” Adohira mused as he held the false face in front of Reina. “Wait, why am I trying to lecture you on this? Noh seems like something you’re already familiar with, no?” He smiled after making the (appalling) pun. ”Anyway, I think it suits you. Try it on.”

At first, Reina had thought of the mask as being eerie and positively possessed, but Adohira’s trivia (which was new to her) renewed her perspective on the matter. He was right as rain. Waka-onna—the character—carried with her the frozen poise and beauty of a Yuki-onna, those mythical snow women. Reina then had to redden and mull over his most recent comment for the next minute as she fiddled with placing the mask’s strap around her forehead.

“Um, you see, I’m more familiar with the movements of Western art myself, whereas you seem to an authority on the Eastern aesthetic?” she suggested in an attempt to fill the silence exclusive to the space between their yukata-bearing figures: hers wine-red, his a blasé blue.

Idly, Reina plucked at a tangle of her hair. There were still drums being beaten in the background.

“Ahaha, I wouldn’t say I’m an ‘authority’ or anything. I guess it’s just something you pick up when you come from a household as traditional as mine.” He walked over to the wall of masks from before, and this time, he selected a comical-looking fellow with his mouth puckered like an octopus.

“Oh, even I’m acquainted with this one!” Reina saw and grabbed at her chance to catch up to him in _Jeopardy_ points. “ _Hyottoko-san_ , correct? This mask is featured in all sorts of cartoons and media in general. I believe the... unique shape of his lips speaks to his occupation as a charcoal-blower?”

“Mm, that is so...” he said as he placed the polka-doted face over his own, “though there’s some fairly grisly folklore surrounding his origins which I believe to be lesser known.”

Reina soon felt like matching the young man by hiding behind her own mask. And alarmed into action, she scrambled to do so. She needed a barrier to hide her blush, but just as importantly, she needed a shield against the supernatural. She could tell Adohira was about to say something scary again, and the woman lacked the clout to stop him. Thus, with no other options available to the helpless Reina, she would take the turtle’s tried-and-true approach to danger.

“Ahahahaha!” To her surprise, Adohira instead broke out into swift, raucous laughter. “Relax! I won’t try to scare you again, Reina. I learned my lesson at the vending machine, okay?” He lifted his mask and dabbed at the corner of his eyes, wiping away mirth-induced tears with one of his sleeves.

He soon slid the mask down his face again and shrugged. “Well, regardless of his undisclosed horrors, I still enjoy Hyottoko-san the most. He’s quite the joker, isn’t he?”

 _Yes, just like you!_ Reina pouted and almost had the urge to pummel his pelt with her balled fists—tiny, powerless, but formidable nonetheless. As an acceptable alternative, what she did instead was stamp her sandals on the stone tiles below.

“Haaauu... Adohira is truly a bully!” she whined while looking down and noticing the grass growing between rain-born fissures. They were thin and thoroughly trampled, yet unlike any other, these blades alone would never dull. Nature held no fear of rust—how could man-wrought steel ever compare?

The wind whooshed, warm and wet, carrying with it the acrid smell of charcoal from some nearby _yakitori_ stand, no doubt. Reina was waiting for Adohira to respond—as he usually does with little delay. But why was it that the ground seemed to start spinning all of a sudden? He still hadn’t said anything. She couldn’t hear the merry chatter of festivalgoers in the backdrop either. There was naught but the buzz of snow-white noise and a feather-soft sensation tickling her nose. Was she having a nosebleed?

Not yet.

In the end, Reina looked up. She forced herself too despite feeling faint-headed and faint of heart. In hindsight, the woman wished she could have fainted in that moment. It would have spared her shivering silver soul from so much sorrow.

Adohira was standing inches away from her, stiller than the full moon’s surface. Anxious amber eyes trailed up his figure—his chest neither rose nor fell. Reina’s breath hitched in her throat, sputtering like an engine low on fuel.

More fetid than a swamp, the scent of marrow swarming with maggots crawled up her nostrils.

Adohira’s face wasn’t that of his own. And he was not wearing the mask of amusing Hyottoko.

The bloody visage of a black-horned demon leered down at her. Smouldering orbs of flame spat harsh embers at her. Tusks too massive to fit inside even his gaping maw gleamed like shards from a freshly-snapped femur. This odious demon—this oni—had replaced the man she loved. Love?

_No. It’s much too soon to say... Is that not true, Adohira?_

As if he knew her thoughts, the oni laughed rumbling thunder. Black bile poured out from his jaws, and like spilled ink defiling a sacred script, the porcelain face she wore was stained. Yet already, it was the only face of hers which remained.

Cruel claws consumed the damsel. Reina’s heart would be ravished last. Her body came first.

* * *

_The definition of a damsel: a young and unmarried woman. Virginity was not a necessity, though it was most often a boon. The mean value at which woman in modern-day Japan lost their maidenhood was around nineteen years of age. In some sense, this would mean Reina was a late-bloomer. But any florist worth their soil knew the most beautiful buds bloomed at their own pace._

_If this were true, then humans would not have invented greenhouses._

_Being one such cultivar herself, Reina was floating amid a vast void filled with bubbles. Soft light shone from each one, though she lacked the strength to reach out to them. She felt so cold. So very cold._

_As she fell without end down that vortex where time and space seemed to be afterthoughts of cosmic deign, she passed by a few of those bubbles. Some were larger than others, ready to burst. Snippets of audio made themselves known to the woman. She couldn’t think. All she could do was absorb the stimuli like some pathetic sponge drained of its fluids._

_“A date? We hardly know each other.”_

_Pain. The needle-sharp prick of rejection._

_“Let’s start over, Reina.”_

* * *

_Streams of whimsy. Streams of screams. Sailing down the river without your dreams._

_"This so-called shooting game is a scam!” Her voice, indignant for a reason._

_"These bottles have clearly been nailed down! Or otherwise fastened!”_

_This had been an early folly of hers. She hadn’t considered the heft of a rifle. She had no experience with the world known only through those iron sights._

_However, however, however, the inception of sin was much further back—bound by knotted roots beyond man’s memory. Swallowed whole like the key to someone’s solarium of several summers ago._

* * *

_Gentle. Bold. With a hint of merciful malice. This is how a life is taken._

_The same could be said of his approach to most domains of the daily grind._

_“Sure enough, you have to take it easy, but don’t act too late.”_

_The goldfish gasped for air in his grasp—its mouth an aperture. Bulging cheeks like egg yolks._

_"Otherwise, you’ll become friends before you know it... and you can’t hurt a friend.”_

_Yes. You can. You hurt me every single hour we spent together. I hate you._

* * *

_Dodo-san was a smart pigeon. He hobbled on one foot—his other was merely a stump. Food came from the pitying faces of towering apes. Life was fine. He would survive._

_He only needed to avoid the raking nails of those felines which prowled the shrine grounds._

_Reina had a cat. A fluffy fawn named Mocha. Ancient in age. Lazy. And by now, at death’s door._

_“Saying something so cruel, so casually... Reina, you’re actually a little messed up, aren’t you?_

_Adohira did his “ahaha”. A performance was standard fare. Some things never changed._

_“I like that—it’s the candid proof of your imperfections.”_

_Shards of ice spread over her tongue. Numbingly sweet strawberry syrup._

* * *

_They did, didn’t they? She killed him. She dug her nail into his Adam’s apple, drawing a gash down his gullet._

_"Have you noticed we never get a chance to finish our conversations? How hopeless.”_

_He leaned into his palm, compressing his own cheek. “Well, I don’t really mind.”_

_"Half-written works have their own charm.”_

_He murdered her. He spread her guts across the carpet as if prepping a charcuterie board for a party consisting of you and me and me and you. It was only fair since she had done him in too._

_Kiss me, Karma. Grace us with your gaiety._

* * *

_This bubble was particularly large and shiny. Her sanity was restored if only for a moment. One lonesome moment was enough. She could see her reflection scattered across its ephemeral surface. If she drifted too close, it would pop. But if she was adequate in patience, there would be no need to fear._

_“Wow... This is yours? You know how to drive a motorcycle?”_

_Adohira scratched his neck. “Ahaha... That sort of reaction makes me feel embarrassed. It’s not too edgy for a guy like me to own one, right? If you need proof, I have a license.”_

_“N-No, that’s quite all right! Excuse me—I believe you. It’s just impressive, is all!”_

_She nearly fumbled when he tossed her his spare helmet, but nevertheless, the clumsy girl caught it with both hands. Helmet acquired, she hesitantly inserted herself behind him where there was space. The metal was cold; she half-expected the machine to whinny like some noble black steed. Fantasies took her for a ride long before the actual ride began. Had she finally met her prince?_

_With a hard shake of her head, Reina resumed reality. Except that was an exercise in futility for the time being. “It’s been years since I’ve even been on my bicycle... Y-You’re sure this is safe, yes?”_

_“Don’t fret, Reina. If it comes down to it, I’ll take responsibility.”_

_“Responsibility for wh-what?!” she blurted, thoughts spiralling and sprinting to corners of her mind she refused to acknowledge._

_"Your life, of course.” He twisted the handlebars, revving the engine. And just like that, the sleek beast beneath their seat purred to life._

_Thank goodness the helmet hid her face._

_It hadn’t exactly been the “bodily accident” she initially leapt to, but once again, Reina could thank her—his—helmet for hiding her embarrassment. Wind buffeted the woman’s wavy hair and whipped her flowery sleeves about. As the pavement began to blur under the wheels, and the incline grew steep, she wasn’t sure where to grab at first. Mere seconds passed before the fear of falling overcame her sense of shame; naturally, she pressed herself against his back, broader than the Mongolian steppes—from her perspective alone._

_Her exclusive privilege. Her victory as a woman._

* * *

_It would be time for the fireworks soon, and they had meant to enjoy it together in their secret spot. But Adohira had said something that shook her world. That blotted the moon._

_“Then... Then why did you bring me all the way up here, Ado?”_

_She had called him “Ado” at last._

_“To speak plainly, it’s so romantic I’m about to have a heart attack.”_

_She had spoken with a certain poise and melancholy that, for a fleeting moment, had her in contention for being the world’s most beautiful woman._

_For once, Adohira, who seemed to have a comeback for everything, clammed up. His eyes met hers—tandem suns colliding._

_It would be time for the fireworks soon, sooner than anyone had anticipated._

* * *

_She froze. Time froze. Not to help her... but rather to mock her._

_The gears in her head slowed to a piteous crawl. Of course they meant something to her, but there was no way Adohira could be... Motion returned to her world. “The American Cartoonist?” Reina heard herself saying, almost automatically._

_It was a ghostly echo in the guise of her dulcet dialect._

_She refused to be compared to an android—or some other clockwork abomination._

_All she had wanted was to view the fireworks in peace with him. To see the night sky come alive with tinted powder. It was the innocent desire of a woman who couldn’t decide how old she wanted to be._

_Forever fixated between lifelong obligations and girlhood fairy tales._

_Pinch a fairy’s wings betwixt finger and thumb._

_Pluck them off one by one._

_Butterfly, butterfly. Better fly to further days._

* * *

_“Reina, I won’t die, so... you do your best to live too.”_

_His words, though spoken with angelic softness, had the weight of a shotgun slug._

_She wanted so badly to reply, but her body was no longer her own. Articulated appendages fell limp by her side._

_There was applause for all. Everyone had had a hand in the deicide._

_And then the world of noise she had known diminished to a whimper. A well-dressed doll in the darkness—seated in her swivel chair—she beckoned. Melodic. To whom did this laughter belong? Ringing in her ears. Coffee beans fed through a grinder. Like a candle, her sapience was snuffed out._

* * *

_Gathering light. It was here. Her soul stirred. Strength as a human being. Fireworks. These were the bread crumbs that would guide her from the woods where she had perished nigh infinite times before._

_This was her final chance. Their final audition. No more attempts remaining. No more do-overs. With her last life, Reina swore to deliver a rebuttal that would shatter the tragedy in twain. Or at least a headbutt. If she had to break character just this once, then so be it._

_Not everyone was content to be a marionette on this most despicable of stages._

_She had to rewrite the script and transform this tragedy into a genre where victory was possible. Where a solution was present._

_But first things first, she had to wake up._

_Rise, Reina._

_Bite back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, we may bring the curtain down upon the prologue. Certainly a change of pace, huh? The mysteries have multiplied, but we'll do our best to unravel them with time. Well then, I need to give a heads-up: exam season will soon be upon us, so at best, I might be able to get one more chapter out this month. That's only a maybe. Academics should always come first, and I'd humbly advise all you other students to follow suit. Stay tuned for Stage 1-1: School Shooting.


End file.
